Because when the glass shattered—when the bullet hit the floor, and my knees nearly gave out—when I thought, This is it—
And then he was there.
Arms around me. Solid. Unmoving. Furious in a way that left no room for doubt.
I hadn’t thought. I hadn’t reasoned. I had just felt it.
Safe.
Safer than I’ve felt in years of searching, running, hoping, being disappointed over and over again.
The realization makes my stomach twist.
I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, anger flaring—at him, at myself, at the way my body betrays my principles so easily. How dare I feel comfort in a man who cages me in protection and calls it love? How dare my pulse slow when his breath warms the back of my neck?
His fingers shift, brushing my stomach in his sleep, pulling me closer without waking.
I freeze.
Then—traitorously—I relax into it.
Just a fraction.
I hate myself for that most of all.
Morning comes anyway.
Too bright. Too normal.
Konstantin walks me downstairs like an escort and a warning all at once, his hand firm at my lower back. Not guiding—claiming. I feel the tension radiating off him, anger banked and waiting, like a blade kept sharp through restraint. Every guard we pass straightens instantly. Conversations die. Even the walls feel alert, like they know who rules this space.
We eat in silence.
Cutlery clinks too loudly. I can’t taste anything. He watches everything—doorways, windows, reflections—while barely looking at me, and yet I feel seen in a way that makes my skin itch.
When the plates are cleared, I finally speak.
“I want my phone.”
He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t look at me at all. “No.”
My fingers curl in my lap. “Then my laptop. I need access to my files. My research.”
He turns his head slowly, eyes cold, assessing. “Also no.”
Heat floods my chest. “You can’t just erase me,” I snap. “I can’t live like a ghost—cut off from my work, my contacts, my life.”
Something dark flickers across his face.
“You don’t have a life outside this house anymore,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “You have the one I give you now.”
The words hit harder than the bullet ever could.
Before I can stop myself, I stand. My hand moves on instinct, sound ringing through the room before my mind can catch up.
Smack.
Not brutal.