Ashley's POV:
The sleep was heavy, deeper than any I'd had in months, weighted by exhaustion and the strange comfort of silk sheets and a warm room. For the first time, my body truly relaxed, forgetting, for a brief, treacherous window, that the man beside me was the devil in human form.
But then, something soft and wet brushed my cheek.
I stirred, blinking against the thick darkness, and felt it again: light, repeated touches across my face. My body stiffened immediately. A creeping panic pulled me upright in bed, only for me to realize I was trapped against his chest. The air was cold, but Roman's presence was furnace-hot, suffocating.
My eyes snapped open.
Roman was propped up on an elbow beside me. In the gloom, the usual hardness in his grey eyes had softened to something almost luminous, almost vulnerable. His hair fell in messy strands over his forehead. And he was kissing me—light, frantic, worshipful kisses, on my eyelids, the bridge of my nose, my cheek. I froze. Horror, disbelief, and something dangerous stirring beneath my skin.
"Moya Zvezda," he murmured in Russian, low, guttural. I didn't understand the words, but the devotion behind them hit me in the chest like a hammer.
I jerked slightly, but his hand came up to cradle the back of my head, holding me still. My own hands were free, uncuffed, but I didn't move. His fingers pressed to my knuckles, kissing them, trailing his tongue along the length of each finger as if claiming them. I wanted to recoil, to scream, to shove him away. But my body froze. Hatred was supposed to protect me, yet it trembled under the weight of his obsession.
"Stop!" I choked out, desperation clawing at me.
He paused, lips lingering at the hollow of my throat. His eyes searched mine, reading every flicker of tension. He looked satisfied, as if waking beside me was the only thing that made sense in his world.
"Forgive me, Moya Zvezda," he whispered. "I could not wait. I needed to know you were real. You were… peaceful. I could not resist."
He pressed a deliberate kiss above the bandage on my collarbone—the brand. My stomach twisted. Ownership. Dark, searing, undeniable.
I should have moved, screamed, done anything. But then a sharp ache bloomed in my lower abdomen, pulling me back into reality. My blood ran cold. My period. Now.
Panic surged. I had to escape before he realized. I twisted, trying to slide out of his iron hold, but he tightened his arms instinctively.
"Where are you going?" His voice was sharp, immediate. The tenderness dissolved, replaced by the commanding predator I knew too well.
"I… I need the bathroom," I whispered, voice thick with humiliation.
"Nonsense," he murmured, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply, possessively. "You just woke. Wait. I am not done holding you."
I yanked against the sheets, fighting the silk, fighting the warmth. "Roman, please! I need—"
Finally, his eyes locked onto mine, registering the urgency, the panic. He lifted me smoothly, turning us so I faced him. "What is it?" His voice teetered between alarm and command.
"My period," I blurted, cheeks burning. "I need… I need to clean up."
His expression froze. The possessive, obsessive man—the monster I'd come to know—was blank, unprepared. His gaze flicked between me and the sheets, confusion and panic warring in his grey eyes.
"Blood?" he breathed. "Are you… hurt? Ashley, where? Tell me what you need."
"I'm fine!" I rushed, flustered. "It's natural. Just… pads, a bathroom, maybe some pain medicine. I—please."
For a moment, he looked lost, scrambling to reconcile his control with this biological reality. Then he moved, gathering supplies, fidgeting like a man unaccustomed to anything outside his carefully controlled universe.
When I returned, the bedroom was unrecognizable. Fresh white sheets replaced the stained silk. Roman sat on the edge of the bed, a massive figure surrounded by neatly arranged pads and a small heating pad, clearly ordered in a panic.
"I searched," he said simply, not looking proud, just… desperate. "Comfort, warmth, all you might need. Ginger tea comes in the morning. Pads, heating… everything."
I swallowed hard, holding my towel close. "I'm… sorry. This came early. Stress, maybe."
He shook his head, cupping my face. "Tell me if it hurts, Ashley," he said quietly, pressing soft kisses to my forehead, cheek, nose. "Immediately."
I slid under the covers, still wrapped in silk pajamas. Then he removed his shirt.
"Why are you taking off your shirt?" I asked, suspicious and confused.
"The internet," he replied. "Close contact reduces pain. Warmth is the best natural relief."
He tucked me against his chest, spooning me. The heat of his skin pressed against the silk of my pajamas, a wall of warmth that seemed to swallow me whole.
"But… don't be too close," I whispered, shame prickling my nerves. "I don't—"
"Nothing you do is dirty," he growled softly, pressing a hand over my lower abdomen. "I only care about this. I cannot see you in pain. Let me give you warmth."
The absurdity of the gesture was staggering. The man who ordered hits and crushed men beneath his will was using his body to shield me from a cramp he'd learned about on Google.
I wanted to hate him fully. I wanted to resist entirely. Yet, nestled against him, pressed to his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart, something inside me began to unravel. A wave of dangerous, forbidden comfort swept through me.
I hated him for the hold he had over my mind. I hated him for making this moment feel safe. But in his arms, enveloped by warmth and obsessive care, I allowed myself, treacherously, to simply exist.
"Does this… help?" he murmured into my hair, voice low, questioning, almost childlike.
"I… I guess," I whispered, shame hot in my cheeks.
His lips brushed the crown of my head. "Good. It is enough for me if you are not in pain. Nothing else matters."
I closed my eyes, breathing against him, trapped between hate and a dangerous, creeping desire to believe in his tenderness—even if I knew it could never be safe.
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Author's Note:
Well… this chapter escalated faster than a horror movie in a spa. 🩸😅
Roman: certified nightmare with a PhD in obsessive care.
Spooning, silk, and panic-induced Googling—he's truly a man of extremes.
Ashley: somehow surviving trauma, bodily betrayal, and a possessive psychopath's attempts at comforting her.
Bravo, girl. 👏
Moral of the story? Even monsters can accidentally discover the magic of heating pads and human warmth—but that doesn't mean you trust them.
Proceed with caution. And maybe invest in extra sheets. You'll need them. 🔥💀
-Vaanni 🖤