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I sink onto the bed and try to figure out how to explain something I don’t fully understand myself. “Someone was watching me. Watching us. They had cameras in the apartment.”
“Cameras?” Her voice goes up an octave. “What kind of cameras?”
“The kind that record everything. Nikandr found them when we went to pack my things.”
She curses. “How long do you think they were there?”
“Weeks, maybe months.” The thought makes my skin crawl all over again. “One of the regulars from the club—that shifty creep, Carl—attacked me today. Nikandr thinks he was paid to watch me and try to take me for some reason.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long I think the call might have dropped. “Jessie?”
“I’m here. I’m just processing the fact that someone was watching us shower and sleep and live our lives without us knowing.” Her voice is shaky now. “Where are you?”
“Nikandr’s estate. It’s...” I look around the opulent room and try to find words that capture how surreal this all feels. “It’s like a museum. Beautiful and cold and completely isolated.”
She sounds worried. “Are you safe?”
I don’t hesitate, not wanting her to worry. “I think so, but this place feels like a really expensive prison.”
She’s silent for another moment as though gathering her thoughts. “Brina, someone broke into our home and planted cameras. Someone paid a man to watch you and probably hurtyou. You and the baby are only alive because Nikandr showed up when he did.”
I know she’s right. Logically, I understand everything she’s saying is true, but logic doesn’t make the grief any smaller.
“I know. I just...” I take a shaky breath. “I’ve lost everything. My job, my apartment, and my independence. I didn’t choose any of this.”
“You didn’t choose to get pregnant either, but you’re dealing with it.”
I shake my head even though can’t see it. “That’s different.”
She lets out a small sigh. “Is it? Both situations require you to adapt to circumstances you didn’t plan for.”
I want to argue with her, to point out that choosing to keep my baby is completely different from being forced to live under Nikandr’s protection, but the truth is, both situations involve giving up control over my life, and that terrifies me more than I want to admit. Part of me accepted there was a possibility Nikandr would be involved in my life in some way when I chose to keep the pregnancy.
“What if this is permanent?” I whisper the fear aloud. “What if I never get to go home?”
She sounds encouraging but also firm. “You’ll build a new home. You can do this.”
After we hang up, I lie on the impossibly soft bed and stare at the ceiling, feeling more alone than I have since my mother died. The silence in this house is oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps in hallways I haven’t explored and voices speaking in languages I don’t understand.
I try to sleep, but my mind won’t quiet. Every time I close my eyes, I see Carl’s face, feel his hands on me, and remember the moment when I thought he might actually hurt my baby. The terror of that moment keeps replaying in an endless loop, mixed with the relief of seeing Nikandr appear like some kind of avenging angel.
I hate that I needed rescuing and I couldn’t protect myself or my child. I really hate that my safety now depends entirely on a man whose world operates by rules I’ll never understand.
Around midnight, driven by a hunger I can’t name, something deeper than the physical need for food, I give up on sleep and make my way downstairs. The house is different at night, full of shadows and echoes that make it feel even larger and more intimidating than it did during the day.
I find the kitchen more by accident than design, following the smell of lingering herbs and the soft glow of light. It’s massive, with professional-grade appliances and enough counter space to feed an army, but somehow, it feels more welcoming than the rest of the house, maybe because Nikandr is already there.
He’s sitting at a large island in the center of the room, laptop open in front of him, wearing jeans and a black sweater that make him look less like a dangerous criminal and more like a man who belongs in a kitchen at midnight. There’s a cup of coffee at his elbow and papers scattered across the granite surface.
He looks up when I enter, and something in his expression shifts from focused concentration to gentle concern. “Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head and hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure why I came down here. “I was hungry.”
“Pregnancy cravings?”
The casual way he says it, like discussing my pregnancy is the most natural thing in the world, startles me. “Something like that.”
He closes the laptop and stands up, moving with that fluid grace I remember from before. “What sounds good?”