Page 89 of Dangerous Beginnings

He must be tired; besides I have no idea where he’s been. However, I don’t intend to know everything and I’m sure he won’t tell me. He’s been quite protective about it. I’m indecisive for a while, but when another thunder strikes my ears, I’m up and my feet begin to move towards the door. Down the hallway, I run as more booms of thunder rush through the hall windows. I eventually stop at his room. The door is closed. I slowly open it, and it creaks louder than I anticipated. I look around, my eyesadjusting to the darkness.

They land on his dark silhouette in the bed. His bare chest was just above the covers. It’s rising and falling rhythmically, indicating he’s asleep. I feel bad for waking him up. Yet, I flinch again at another thunder strike. I move closer, my breath catching at the sight of him. My eyes move to the nightstand where his gun lays, sometimes I forget who he is. Not really, but a little.

I gather all my courage and whisper, “Aslanov?” He stirs in his sleep, but no reaction.

I stand there, admiring him all whilst pissing my pants from the thunder outside. He always has his window open on a crack, making the thunder sound even louder. Besides, it’s always cold. With trembling hands, I reach out to touch him, my finger tracing the contour of the tattoo on his arm as if I’m seeking reassurance in the warmth of his skin. Aslanov stirs from his slumber, his eyelids fluttering open, revealing those dark piercing eyes.

“Isabella,” his voice is hoarse, filled with sleep.

His eyes observed me beside his bed. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the switch, and with a soft click, the nightstand lamp floods the room with light.

He rubs his eyes and stubbles while a slight groan escapes his lips.

“I-I couldn’t sleep…” I pause, feeling like I shouldn’t have disturbed him for something so stupid, I haven’t spoken much to him since the night in the bathroom. He’s been gone mostly, busy with dark things, I’m sure. “…because of the thunderstorm.” I finish with a mumble.

His eyes scan mine and I feel exposed under his gaze.

“I think it’s already going down,” I state while awkwardly smiling and turning around to go to my bedroom again, this was a stupid idea. But just as I turn around another boom runsthrough the room, causing me to flinch again.

“Come here,” Aslanov’s voice echoes through the room. It’s not a question, it’s ademand.

I try to tell him it’s okay, that I regret disturbing his sleep, and try to get back to my own bed. The storm is sounding further away, and I’m just embarrassed. Aslanov sits up straight now.

“Wasn’t I clear?”

I swallow. I slowly turn around and make my way back to the bedside.

With slow, tentative steps, I move closer, finally sitting down on the bed. The proximity to him is both comforting and unsettling, stirring feelings I’ve tried to keep at bay. I shift on the bed, fiddling with my fingers, the chipped nail polish being a distraction. Aslanov moves slightly to the side and opens the thick covers.

“Come.”

It’s another command, I know I’m not able to resist. My body obeys for me. I find solace in the warmth that radiates from his chest. It’s a contrast to the cold, impersonal touch of the world outside, a comfort I find myself drawn to despite the chaos of my thoughts.

Settling against him, my head rests on his pillow, his scent is all over it. It’s making my insides curl. It’s a moment of vulnerability, of seeking comfort in the last place I ever imagined finding it. I curl myself up and I can feel Aslanov his chest against my back. One of his arms circles around my waist. My heartbeat spikes. His warm hand draws circling motions on the bare skin of my stomach, making my tank top rise.

“You’re afraid of thunderstorms,” he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice, “yet here you are finding shelter next to a man who’s considered far more dangerous than any natural phenomenon.”

The irony makes me wonder how sane I am. He rests his chinon top of my head and his warmth is pulling me in. But as the next clap of thunder rolls through the room, I shiver.

“Easy sweetheart,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice low. “It’s just a storm. It can’t touch you here.”

I tense again as another rumble follows. I hate thunderstorms. The memories flood back, unbidden, wrapping around me like the cold, damp air of that basement. I can almost smell the musty scent of wet stone, and feel the cold creeping up through the concrete floor as I sat there, alone, trembling in the dark. I had no way out—my stepfather always made sure of that. He’d lock the door behind me, and I’d hear the heavy click of the bolt sliding into place, sealing me in. He’d make me sit there, alone, with the thunder roaring through the walls like a monster I couldn’t see but could feel in every bone of my body. The flashes of lightning would slip through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, casting a brief, eerie glow that made the shadows seem alive. And the water…it always pooled in the corners, seeping in from God knows where, until it soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the core.

As I am too far into my thoughts, I don’t notice the tears rolling down my cheeks and the way my breathing is ragged.

Aslanov’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me in even closer. With one swift motion, he turns me around, and I’m now facing the breathtaking man in front of me. I bury my tear-streaked face in his chest. He leans in, pressing his lips softly to my forehead, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The gesture is so gentle, so soothing.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You’re not cold. You’re not alone. You’re here with me, and I won’t let anything touch you.” My breathing hitches heavily.

“Focus on my voice,Isabella,” he says, his tone deep and calm.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his grip on me. His hand moves up to cradle the back of my head, guiding me gently to rest againsthis chest. “Breathe with me,” he whispers, his breath brushing my hair. “In and out, slowly. Match my breathing.”

I try to focus on the rise and fall of his chest, on the steady rhythm of his breath. It’s slow, controlled, and as he exhales, I follow, letting out a shaky breath of my own. “Whatever you are thinking of, you’re not there anymore. You’re here,safe.”

Slowly, the tension in my body begins to release, the fear loosening its grip. I take another deep breath, matching his, and then another. Each one feels a little easier than the last, the storm outside gradually fading into the background.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his voice full of a quiet pride that makes me feel grounded. And for the first time in a long time, I feel safe. I feel seen.

---