Five days into my stay at the estate, Nikandr surprises me by joining me for lunch in the sunroom. It’s a beautiful space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens, filled with natural light and comfortable furniture that actually feels lived-in rather than staged for a magazine shoot. I’ve taken to eating here when the formal dining room feels too overwhelming, which is most of the time.
He appears in the doorway carrying a plate of his own, wearing dark jeans and a gray sweater that makes his eyes look almost silver in the afternoon light. “Mind if I join you?”
I gesture to the empty chair across from me, surprised by the request. Over the past few days, our interactions have been limited to brief encounters in hallways and polite inquiries about my health. This feels different and more intentional.
“How are you settling in?” he asks as he sits down, cutting into what appears to be some kind of gourmet sandwich that makes my simple salad look inadequate by comparison.
“Fine. The house is beautiful.” The response comes automatically and is the style of polite deflection I’ve perfected over years of waitressing. Something in his expression tells me he’s looking for more than surface pleasantries.
“But?” he prompts gently.
I take a bite of lettuce and consider how honest I want to be. “It’s just very different from what I’m used to. Everything here is so…” I search for the right word. “Perfect. Like a museum.”
“I suppose it might feel that way.” He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “I didn’t exactly design it with comfort in mind. More like security.”
“It shows.” The comment slips out before I can stop it, and I immediately regret the sharpness in my tone. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“It was honest. There’s a difference.” He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “What would make you more comfortable?”
The question catches me unprepared. I expected him to be offended by my criticism, not interested in addressing it. “I don’t know. Maybe just…less formality? I feel like I’m going to break something expensive every time I move.”
“You won’t break anything. If you did, it could be replaced.”
“Easy for you to say. You probably don’t know what any of this stuff costs.”
His laughs transforms his entire face. “Actually, I know exactly what everything costs. I just care more about your comfort than my furniture.”
The admission warms something in my chest that I’ve been trying to keep cold. I focus on my salad to avoid meeting his gaze. “How are you handling the pregnancy cravings?”
“Pickle ice cream and peanut butter on everything.” I make a face. “What about you? Any weird food combinations you’re secretly addicted to though you aren’t pregnant.”
He seems to think if over for a moment. “When I was younger, I used to eat cereal for dinner at least three times a week. Yaroslav always said it was going to stunt my growth.”
The mention of his brother creates a shift in the conversation as something heavier settles between us. I’ve learned not to push when he brings up his family, but this time, I’m curious enough to risk it. “What was it like, growing up with just the two of you?”
He sets down his sandwich and leans back in his chair, considering the question. “Chaotic. We were both too young to be taking care of ourselves, but we figured it out. Yaroslav was better at the practical stuff—cooking, managing money, and making sure we went to school most of the time.”
“How old were you when your parents died?”
“I was twelve. Yaroslav was seventeen.” His voice gets quieter. “I don’t know how, but he kept us both out of the foster system.”
I try to imagine being twelve and suddenly orphaned, responsible for yourself and dependent on a brother who wasn’t even an adult himself. My own childhood had its challenges, but at least I had my mother until I was twenty-three. “That must have been terrifying.”
“It was, but we had each other, which made it manageable. Yaroslav always said we were a team, so as long as we stuck together, we could handle anything.” His expression darkens. “He was right, until he wasn’t.”
The pain in his voice is raw and immediate, and I want to offer some kind of comfort. “I’m sorry. Losing him like that… I can’t imagine.”
“What about you? You mentioned your mother was sick.”
The change of subject is clearly intentional, but I don’t mind. Talking about my own loss feels easier than watching him struggle with his. “Stomach cancer, three years ago. It was fast and brutal, from diagnosis to funeral in eight months.”
His eyes reflect sympathy. “That’s why you were working at the club?”
I nod, pushing lettuce around my plate. “Insurance didn’t cover everything, and the bills kept coming even after she died. I was working two jobs for a while, trying to stay afloat.”
“And your father left after all that? Sounds like a piece of shit.”
I grimace. “David Clyde, sleazy car salesman, left us when I was five, actually. One day he was there, the next day he wasn’t. My mom never wanted to talk about it, so I stopped asking.”
Nikandr’s expression hardens. “He just left? No explanation or anything?”
I nod. “Just a note on the fridge. Some men aren’t built for responsibility, though he seems to manage just fine with his new family. My mom was better off without him, even if things were harder financially.”
He frowns hard enough to make grooves appear at the sides of his mouth. “Still, when she died, and he knew you were alone, he should have stepped up. You shouldn’t have had to handle all that alone.”
The statement is simple, but something in his tone makes my chest tighten. “I managed. I’m still managing.”
“You don’t have to anymore.”
The words are loaded with implications, but I let them pass without reacting. I take a sip of water to gain time to think of a response that doesn’t reveal how much his offer tempts me.
“The baby will be lucky to have you fighting for them,” he says quietly. “Not every child gets a mother willing to sacrifice everything for their welfare.”
I meet his gaze, startled. “I haven’t sacrificed everything…”
“Haven’t you? You gave up your job, your apartment, and your independence. You’re sitting in a stranger’s house, completely dependent on my protection, because you put your child’s safety above your own comfort.”
When he puts it like that, it sounds almost noble instead of pathetic. “I didn’t have much choice.”
He seems unconvinced. “There’s always a choice. You could have run when you found out I knew about the pregnancy. You could have refused to come here and taken your chances on your own, but you chose to trust me with the most important thing in your world.”
I shake my head. “I chose to trust you with our baby’s safety. That’s different.”
“Is it?”
The question lingers as we finish eating, and I sneak glances at him when I think he’s not looking. This thoughtful, gentle, and genuinely interested version of Nikandr is harder to resist than the dangerous stranger who swept into my life and turned everything upside down, and I know how the effort to resist that side turned out.
After lunch, he walks me back to my suite, and for the first time since arriving at the estate, I don’t feel like I’m being escorted by a guard. The conversation continues as we walk, touching on whether I’m hoping for a boy or a girl. “I don’t know, but we might wit the next ultrasound,” I day as we pause outside my door. “I just want him or her to be healthy.”
His expression is open, and his eyes are vulnerable. “He or she will be. You’re taking good care of our child.”
“We’re taking good care of him or her,” I correct without thinking, then immediately regret the slip. The word ‘we’ implies a partnership that doesn’t exist, as a shared investment in this pregnancy that goes beyond his obligation to protect his heir.
Instead of correcting me or pulling back, he smiles. “Yes. We are.”
That night, the dream comes back with a vengeance.
I’m in the club again, but this time, the hallway stretches endlessly in both directions. Carl is there, but his face keeps changing. Sometimes it’s him, sometimes it’s a faceless stranger, and sometimes, it’s no one at all. The knife appears and disappears, the walls close in and expand, and no matter how fast I run or how loudly I scream, I can’t find the exit.
When I finally manage to wake myself up, I’m drenched in sweat and shaking so hard the bed frame creaks. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and for a second, I can’t remember where I am or whether the threat is real.
Then my bedroom door slams open.
Nikandr bursts through with a gun drawn, scanning the room with of focused intensity that suggests he’s prepared to kill whatever threat he finds. He’s wearing pajama pants and nothing else, his hair disheveled like he was pulled from sleep, but his movements are completely alert and controlled.
“What happened?” His voice is sharp and demanding.
“Nothing. I’m fine. It was just a nightmare.”
He lowers the weapon but doesn’t relax, his gaze moving over every corner of the room like he’s checking for hidden dangers. “You screamed.”
“I did?” I touch my throat, surprised to find it sore. “I didn’t realize.”
“Loud enough to wake half the house.” He sets the gun on my dresser and moves closer to the bed, his expression shifting from tactical alertness to genuine concern. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Just scared.” The admission feels pathetic, but I’m too shaken to maintain any pretense of strength.
He sits on the edge of the bed without asking permission, reaching out to brush damp hair back from my forehead. The gesture is so gentle, so natural, that it takes my breath away.
“The same dream?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. His hand is warm against my skin, and I find myself leaning into the touch despite every rational thought telling me to maintain distance.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s just my stupid brain processing what happened at the club.”
“Trauma isn’t stupid, Sabrina. Neither are the dreams that come with it.”
The understanding in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. “I keep running, but I can never get away. Every time I think I’ve found the exit, it turns out to be another hallway and another dead end. Sometimes, the baby is in danger too, and I can’t protect them either.”
“But you did protect them. You fought back, you got away, and you’re both safe now.”
“Because you showed up. If you hadn’t—”
“But I did.” His thumb traces across my cheekbone, wiping away tears I didn’t realize had started falling. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
The promise should terrify me. Three weeks ago, I would have seen it as a threat to my independence. But sitting here in the dark, still shaking from the terror of my subconscious, it feels like the first real safety I’ve known in years.
“Will you stay?” The request slips out before I can stop it. “Just until I fall asleep again?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
I expect him to pull up a chair or settle into the sitting area across the room. Instead, he moves around to the other side of the bed and lies down beside me, fully clothed on top of the covers. His arms come around me without hesitation, pulling me against his chest like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“Better?” he murmurs against my hair.
I nod, already feeling the panic start to subside. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, his body warm and solid against mine. For the first time since arriving at the estate, I feel truly safe.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel weak for needing this.”
His arms tighten around me. “Needing comfort doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
We lie together in the dark, and gradually my breathing slows to match his. The terror fades, replaced by a different kind of intensity. I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch, every breath he takes, every subtle shift in his position. The attraction I’ve been trying to suppress comes flooding back, stronger than ever.
When I tilt my head up to look at him, his eyes are already on my face. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, he looks younger, less guarded, like the man I glimpsed during those four days at the safehouse before everything became complicated.
“Nikandr,” I whisper, not sure what I’m asking.
“I know.” His voice is rough with the same want I’m feeling. “I know.”
I don’t remember making the conscious decision to kiss him. One moment we’re looking at each other in the darkness, and the next my mouth is on his, desperate and searching and unable to hold back anymore. All the longing I’ve been trying to suppress, all the attraction I’ve been denying, pours out in that single contact.
When he kisses me back, it’s with everything he’s been holding in too. His hand tangles in my hair, his mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes my entire body come alive. This isn’t the careful kiss of someone who’s being polite. This is raw need, desperate want, the kind of passion that burns away every rational thought.
I forget about the pregnancy, the complicated circumstances that brought us together, and all the reasons this is a terrible idea. All I can think about is the way he tastes, the way his hands feel on my skin, the way my body responds to his touch like it’s been waiting for this moment since the day I left the safehouse.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can see the conflict in his eyes, want warring with concern, while desire fights against his protective instincts.
“Sabrina…” I press my fingers to his lips.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t think about all the reasons we shouldn’t. Not tonight.”
He captures my hand and presses a kiss to my palm, sending heat shooting through my entire body. “Are you sure?”
Instead of answering with words, I kiss him again, pouring every ounce of certainty I possess into the contact. This time when he responds, there’s no hesitation or holding back. It’s just pure, overwhelming need that threatens to consume us both.
