The house felt different after that night.
Not quieter.
Not louder.
Not safer.
Not more dangerous.
Just… closer.
Like the walls had shifted inward.
Like the air carried weight.
Like every room remembered what had been said.
What had been felt.
What had almost happened.
Zarek didn't appear for two days.
That absence did something to me.
Not relief.
Not peace.
Anticipation.
I hated that.
Hated the awareness.
Hated the way my body noticed his absence before my mind did.
Hated the silence feeling incomplete without his presence.
I stayed in the garden more.
Walked the same paths.
Sat in the same places.
Read the same pages.
Everything felt repetitive.
Controlled.
Circular.
And then he returned.
I felt him before I saw him.
That shift in the air.
That heaviness.
That pull.
I was in the library when he entered.
No announcement.
No guards.
No sound.
Just presence.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching me.
Not speaking.
Not interrupting.
Just observing.
I didn't look up.
"Stop pretending you didn't hear me," he said calmly.
"I wasn't pretending."
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Unhurried.
He came closer.
I kept my eyes on the page.
"You're reading the same sentence," he said.
I froze.
Then shut the book.
Looked up at him.
"What do you want, Zarek?"
Not "sir."
Not "boss."
Not "Mr. Volkov."
Just his name.
Something changed in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not irritation.
Possession.
Interest.
Recognition.
"I want you to stop fighting me," he said quietly.
"That's never happening."
"I'm not asking for surrender," he replied.
"I'm asking for proximity."
The word made my chest tighten.
"I don't want proximity."
"That's a lie."
Silence.
He moved closer.
Not invading.
Not forcing.
Just entering my space slowly.
Deliberately.
Intimately.
"You're not afraid of me anymore," he said.
"I am."
"You're cautious," he corrected.
"Not afraid."
He stopped in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
The space between our bodies was thin.
Charged.
Electric.
His hand lifted.
Slow.
Controlled.
Not sudden.
Not aggressive.
Gave me time to stop him.
I didn't.
His fingers brushed my hair.
Not rough.
Not possessive.
Gentle.
Intimate.
Careful.
Romantic in a way that felt wrong.
Confusing.
Dangerous.
His hand slid to my cheek.
Light pressure.
Warm skin.
My breath caught.
My body reacted.
Not desire.
Not arousal.
Recognition.
Connection.
Confusion.
"I don't want to replace her," I whispered.
"I know."
"I don't want to become her."
"I know."
"Then stop touching me like I'm yours."
Silence.
His thumb traced my jawline gently.
Not ownership.
Not force.
Tender.
"This isn't replacement," he said quietly.
"This is preference."
The word shattered something.
"I didn't choose this," I said.
"I did," he replied calmly.
The honesty was brutal.
Romantic in the worst way.
"You're choosing me for the wrong reasons."
"There are no wrong reasons," he said.
"Only outcomes."
I stepped back.
Broke the contact.
Created distance.
"This is manipulation."
"Yes," he said.
No denial.
No shame.
No hiding.
Just truth.
"I don't want your attention," I said.
"I don't want your interest."
"I don't want your protection."
"I don't want your affection."
Silence.
Then something shifted.
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Not rage.
Not cruelty.
Something colder.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
Comparison.
"You're different from her," he said.
The word her cut the air.
"I don't care."
"She was softer."
I flinched.
"She didn't resist," he continued calmly.
"She didn't fight control."
"She didn't challenge authority."
"She accepted her place."
I felt something twist in my chest.
Not jealousy.
Not fear.
Anger.
"You're trying to provoke me."
"No," he said.
"I'm observing contrast."
"I am not her," I snapped.
"I know," he replied.
"She would have already kissed me."
Silence exploded between us.
Not loud.
Not violent.
But devastating.
"That's cruel," I whispered.
"Yes," he agreed.
Then stepped closer.
Not touching.
Not invading.
But close enough to feel his breath.
"You resist," he said quietly.
"You fight."
"You push."
"You defy."
His eyes darkened.
"And that makes you more dangerous."
The words were twisted.
Not romance.
Not cruelty.
Obsession.
"I won't compete with a dead woman," I said.
"You're not competing," he replied.
"You're replacing."
The word landed like poison.
"No," I said.
"I refuse."
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
Charged.
Then his tone softened.
Dangerously.
"You don't have to love me," he said quietly.
"You don't have to trust me."
"You don't have to want me."
He leaned in slightly.
Not touching.
Not forcing.
Just presence.
"But you will stay."
"You will adapt."
"And you will bond."
"Because this place," he whispered,
"is designed to make you attach."
I shook my head.
"You're sick."
"Yes," he replied calmly.
"And you're here."
That honesty destroyed any illusion.
I turned away.
Refused his gaze.
Refused his presence.
Refused the pull.
He watched me for a moment longer.
Then stepped back.
The space returned.
But the tension didn't.
"You're not her," he said quietly.
"I don't want her."
Silence.
"I want what you are becoming."
That sentence terrified me more than any threat.
Because it meant the goal wasn't replacement anymore.
It was transformation.
He turned.
Walked out.
The door closed.
The lock clicked.
And I stood there shaking.
Not from fear alone.
But from something worse.
Confusion.
Attraction.
Anger.
Connection.
Resistance.
Attachment.
Because the line between captivity and intimacy was blurring.
And the more I fought it…
The more aware I became of something I didn't want to admit:
He wasn't trying to turn me into his dead wife anymore.
He was trying to make me into his.