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Yelena
"Aithan, this is ridiculous."
I stand in the center of the penthouse, arms crossed, my pulse thrumming with irritation. My luggage—which I didn’t even pack myself—sits neatly in the corner, evidence of my husband’s high-handedness.
His hand, which is reaching for the light switch, pauses and he turns, his pewter-gold eyes locked onto mine with quiet authority. "It’s not up for discussion, agápi mou ," he says smoothly. I am about to rain down thunder and brimstone. I need to keep you safe.
I bristle at the nickname, my temper flaring. "You had me moved without telling me."
"I told you in the car."
"You told me on our way here. You do realize that’s called kidnapping, right?"
Aithan exhales through his nose, his lips twitching as if he finds my irritation amusing. "It’s called protection. Someone nearly killed you, Yelena. Forgive me for not letting you waltz around the mansion like a walking target."
I stalk toward him, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "That mansion has tighter security than Fort Knox. Why the hell would you think I’m safer here?"
His expression hardens, and suddenly, I feel the shift in him—the lethal edge of Aithan Vasilios; the man feared by everyone.
"Because," he murmurs, placing his drink down with deliberate slowness. "This penthouse is smaller, harder to infiltrate, and only a select few even know it exists. That means less staff, fewer rotating guards, no weak points." He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing. "Unless you’d rather take your chances with the assassin who nearly succeeded the first time?"
I hate that logic is on his side.
I exhale sharply, my fists clenching. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re stubborn," he counters. "But I’d rather have you alive and pissed at me than dead in my arms."
His words hit like a punch to the chest.
Dead.
The image flickers in my mind—the sterile hospital room, the machines beeping, Aithan’s cold fury radiating off him as he swore vengeance on whoever had done this to me.
I drop my gaze, swallowing my pride. "Fine. But this doesn’t mean I agree with you."
His smirk is slow and victorious. "You will."
The arrogance.
I roll my eyes and turn away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response.
But I don’t argue anymore.
Because deep down, I know—this isn’t about control.
This is about Aithan’s obsession with keeping me safe.
And God help whoever tries to take me away from him again.
The days in the penthouse are a study in contrasts. One moment, Aithan is the perfect husband—bringing me breakfast in bed, watching over me like I’m made of porcelain, pressing kisses to my temple as he murmurs, “You need to eat more, my love.”
The next, he’s suffocating me with his paranoia.
"You don’t need to leave the penthouse," he declares one afternoon, blocking the door as I attempt to step out onto the balcony.
Feeling frustrated, I huffed in his face that I’m not going to vanish into thin air. "I just want some fucking fresh air."
"Then open a damn window," he'd growled, his jaw tightening.
His mood has been swinging between devoted protector and overbearing tyrant, and I don’t know which one frustrates me more.
At night, it’s worse.
The security detail outside the penthouse doubles—as if an army is required to guard one woman. His phone is constantly buzzing with updates from Leon, his father, and his men, all reporting their progress on tracking down the assassin.
And through it all, he barely sleeps.
I wake up some nights to find him sitting by the window, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, the city lights casting long shadows across his face. He’s tense, his entire body rigid, like he’s waiting for the war to come to him.
But he doesn't talk about it.
Doesn’t talk about anything.
And it’s eating him alive.
The Breaking Point finally happens on a night like any other.
The room is dark except for the golden glow of the bedside lamp. I wake up to the bed shifting, Aithan's weight heavy beside me.
I turn, expecting to find him lost in another sleepless night, but what I don’t expect is the way he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, shoulders tense like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
"Aithan?" My voice is thick with sleep.
He doesn’t answer.
He’s staring at his hands, the fingers curled into his palms like he wants to crush something—or like he’s trying to hold on to something that’s already slipping through his grasp.
I sit up, reaching out, but the moment my fingers graze his skin, he exhales shakily—a sound I’ve never heard from him before.
"Aithan," I whisper again, this time more urgent.
His head dips, and his breathing turns ragged, like he’s fighting a battle inside himself, one that he’s losing.
Then, softly, he breaks.
"I lost them," he says, his voice raw, barely more than a breath.
The words hit me like a knife to the ribs.
I freeze, watching as his hands tremble, his control cracking right in front of me.
He doesn’t say their names. Doesn’t say wife or son, but I know exactly who he means.
The ghosts of his past that haunt him.
The ones that have always haunted him.
"I should have been there." His voice is thick, weighted with years of guilt. "I should have saved them."
I don’t think. I just move, crawling closer until I’m behind him, my arms wrapping around his tense shoulders, my cheek pressing against his back.
"You were away on a job," I whisper, my chest aching for him.
"I left them alone." His breath shudders. "I left them alone, and they died because of it."
My grip tightens around him, holding him together while he finally lets himself fall apart.
He doesn’t cry. Aithan Vasilios isn’t the kind of man who sheds tears.
But he shakes—his entire body trembling under the weight of everything he’s kept buried for a decade.
And for the first time, I see the depth of his pain, the ugly, raw wound that has never healed.
"I won’t lose you too," he murmurs hoarsely, turning slightly so his forehead presses against my arm, his fingers gripping my hand like a lifeline.
"You won’t," I promise, meaning every word.
He lets out a breath, but I know it’s not relief.
It’s fear.
Because now, he has something to lose again.
And that terrifies him more than anything.
Aithan trembles beneath my hands. Not in fear. Not in anger. But in grief—a grief so raw, so ancient, it feels like it has carved him into the man he is today.
I tighten my arms around him, pressing my lips against the back of his shoulder, trying to pour all of myself into this one touch.
No one was there for him that night. No one to hold him. No one to stop him from drowning in the agony of his loss.
But I’m here now.
And as long as I have breath in my body, no one will ever hurt him again.
I swear it.
He doesn’t speak, but I feel his body soften slightly, like the storm inside him has finally quieted—even if just for a moment.
My fingers run down his back, tracing the rigid lines of his spine, the scars of battles fought, both seen and unseen. His muscles twitch beneath my touch, reacting to me even in his brokenness.
"It wasn’t your fault," I whisper, my voice gentle but firm. "You didn’t let them get killed, Aithan. You didn’t choose this."
He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t pull away either.
Instead, he shifts, turning into me, his movements slow, deliberate. His forehead presses against my collarbone, and his arms snake around my waist, holding on to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that keeps crumbling around him.
I stroke his hair, the dark strands silky beneath my fingertips, and press a kiss to the top of his head.
"I’ve got you," I murmur. "I swear, I’ve got you."
His hold tightens, desperation laced in the way he grips me, like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers just like the ghosts of his past.
But I won’t.
I’m not going anywhere.
Slowly, his breathing evens out, the weight of exhaustion settling over both of us.
I feel the exact moment he surrenders—not just to sleep, but to me.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, we drift off, the darkness no longer something to fear.
Because tonight, for the first time in years, Aithan Vasilios is not alone.
I am right here with him.