At touching me again?
My skin heats at the memory. Will he try? Of course he will. The question is whether I’ll be strong enough to stop him. Whether I’ll want to.
I close the journal and stand too quickly. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Front door. I cross to it, turn the deadbolt. Already locked. Turn it open. Lock it again. Check the chain. Unlatch it. Re-latch it.
The window next. Are the curtains fully closed? I tug at the edges, making sure no gap remains. No space for eyes. Move to the next window. Then the next. My breathing echoes too loud in the quiet apartment.
Kitchen door to the fire escape. Locked. I rattle it to be sure. Then check the wooden rod I’ve wedged in the track. Back to the front door. Still locked. Of course it is. I just checked it.
When did I become this person? This rabbit checking all the holes in her warren?
All rituals of safety, but none of them settle the unease curling through me.
Tomorrow, I’ll fix this.
A new phone. A new number. A security review, private and separate from Bratva channels. Pablo Montoya will be cut off—professionally, ethically, completely. And Nikolai will be informed. If there’s even a whisper of Colombian cartel involvement, he’ll know what to do.
As for Yakov…
I press a hand to my sternum, right where the flutter hits when I think of his voice saying my name, of how closely he watches me.
With Yakov, I rebuild the walls.
No more openings. No more proximity. No more staring down danger like it’s something I can solve.
I curl up on the sofa, unable to face the bedroom. There’s too much space in there. Too much quiet. My mind spins with worst-case scenarios, veering from Pablo’s car outside my building to Yakov pacing in his mansion, planning his next psychological move.
I wonder if he’s as restless as I am. If he’s dissecting my reactions the way I do his. If he’s pacing his cage, body taut with the same need that has me pressing my thighs together. If he’s hard thinking about me the way I’m wet thinking about him.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Tomorrow. The word pulses through me like a heartbeat. I’ll walk into that room. He’ll be waiting, probably by the window, backlit like some dark angel. He’ll turn slowly, eyes finding mine, and say my name in that voice that undoes me.
Mila.
Just thinking it makes me unravel.
Loneliness presses into the cracks.
It’s been there since my mother died. Since I traded grief for long hours, late sessions, and silence. I buried it under career advancement and purpose. But Yakov’s words dug it up like it was never really gone.
You study broken men to forget the broken parts of yourself.
The truth of it tastes bitter.
Sleep tugs at me despite the ache in my chest. Despite the fact that I don’t feel safe, not truly. The chamomile drags me under anyway, soft and slow and unwelcome. My last thought before slipping into dreams is of Yakov. Not the monster. Not the patient.
The man.
Waiting.
Watching.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice I haven’t heard in months whispers,“Sometimes the ones who seem beyond saving are the ones most worth the risk.”
I waketo sunlight streaming through the curtains. My body is stiff. My neck aches. Three missed calls blink across my screen—unknown numbers. And a fourth message waits.
