His To Keep: Dark Mafia Romance

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

BLAIR ASHFORD

✥

I never understood how silence could feel loud until now.

It fills every corner of my mind, pressing in from places inside me I didn’t even know were hollow. That’s what happens, I guess, when your life has always been made of noise—shouting, orders, doors slamming, footsteps you learn to fear before you even hear them. Chaos becomes normal. Stillness becomes suspicious. Your body waits for the next hit, the next command, the next reason to brace yourself.

Now I’m sitting in a bed that isn’t mine, wrapped in a softness I didn’t earn, listening to nothing.

No threats.

No keys turning in locks.

No footsteps pacing the hallway outside my door.

Just quiet.

And my stupid brain keeps telling me it’s a trick.

I’ve been here long enough now that I should be used to it. Long enough that I shouldn’t jump when the pipes settle in the walls or when the heater clicks on. Long enough that I shouldn’t flinch every time the door opens, even though he never opens it quickly. Nikolai always gives me a second. He always says my name softly before he steps inside, like he’s reminding me I’m allowed to breathe.

I should be used to that by now.

But I’m not.

My nerves don’t understand peace. My body doesn’t understand comfort. My thoughts don’t understand kindness. Every time he does something gentle—just something stupid and simple, like handing me a glass of water or brushing my hair behind my ear—my mind stumbles around like a foal on new legs.

It’s pathetic, really.

And yet I can’t stop reacting like this.

I sit up slowly, careful with every movement. The mattress shifts around me like it’s trying to hold me in place. It’s too soft. Too safe. Even the way the blankets fall around me feels wrong, like luxury I didn’t ask for. The bed smells like him—clean, warm, something a little sharp. It’s the kind of scent that makes my chest tighten because it’s familiar now. Because it’s the only thing that doesn’t scare me.

I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them.

There’s a part of me that hates I’m still here.

Not because it’s bad.

But because it’s good.

Too good.

That’s the kind of thing that gets ripped away from people like me.

Every time I close my eyes, flashes of my old life crawl out from wherever I buried them. All the little moments I try not to remember—the commands, the punishments, the fear—show their teeth. They drag me back into memories I never consented to keep. And I know—deep down, under everything I try to bury—that I’m terrified of something going wrong again. Terrified of this fragile peace snapping in half.

It makes me feel like I’m sitting on borrowed time.

The window across from the bed is cracked open just enough for a cold draft to slip through. It brushes across my skin like fingers I didn’t expect, and my muscles pull tight before I can stop them. I hate that my body does that—responds before my mind can catch up. But it’s been trained for too long. You don’t undo years of conditioning because someone looks at you gently.

I close my eyes and force out a breath.

It doesn’t help.

But I pretend it does.

Sometimes I replay the moment everything changed.

Not the details—I don’t let myself go that far—but the feeling.

The feeling of walking into someone’s life and not immediately being treated like a burden. The feeling of someone stepping in without being asked to. The feeling of being seen—really seen—and not having to hide the shaking in my hands or the cracks in my voice.

He saw through me without prying.

That scared me more than anything.

Because honesty is dangerous.

Vulnerability gets you hurt.

Trust gets you trapped.

I’ve lived long enough to know softness always costs something. No one helps without wanting something in return. No one gives without eventually taking. That’s just the way it works. That’s the way I learned it works.

And yet…

Nikolai hasn’t taken anything.

He hasn’t asked for anything.

Not once.

And that’s what makes it so confusing.

So uncomfortable.

So impossible to believe.

I run my fingertips along the blanket, grounding myself in the texture. I’ve done that a lot lately—touching things to prove I’m awake, to prove I’m here and not back in some nightmare I spent years trying to escape. But the fabric under my fingers feels real. The air feels real. My own breath feels real.

Sometimes it’s enough to keep me from spiraling.

Sometimes it isn’t.

The floorboards creak in the hall.

My entire body goes stiff.

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes my heart slam into my ribs. I hold my breath, listening, waiting to hear more footsteps—waiting to hear the heavy, quick ones that always meant trouble. The ones that meant anger was walking toward me. The ones that meant I’d done something wrong without knowing it.

Instead, I hear slow footsteps.

Even. Measured. Familiar.

Then his voice:

“Blair? You awake?”

Just my name.

That’s all he ever says.

I release the air in my lungs too quickly and scrub a shaky hand over my face.

“Y-Yeah,” I call back. “I’m awake.”

I want to sound normal.

I don’t.

My voice cracks like I’m a kid.

The door opens slowly—always slowly—and Nikolai leans against the frame, not stepping in yet, giving me space. He does that every time, as if he knows walking closer too quickly might send my pulse flying. As if he somehow learned my habits, my triggers, my patterns without me ever telling him.

He studies my face with those dark eyes of his, and I hate how easily he reads me.

“You okay?” he asks.

I don’t know how to answer that.

I haven’t known in years.

I nod. “Just thinking.”

He lifts a brow. “Dangerous pastime.”

I snort before I can stop myself. He always does that—says something stupid to cut through whatever darkness I’m drowning in. It works more often than I want to admit.

“Can I come in?” he asks, and the question punches into my chest.

No one ever asks me that.

People just walk in.

People take what they want.

People do what they want.

I stare at him for a moment, unsure if I should say yes, unsure if wanting him close makes me pathetic. But then I nod, small and hesitant.

He steps inside.

The room changes when he enters.

Not in a romantic way.

Not in a swoony way.

In a grounded, physical, real way.

Like the air stops trying to strangle me.

Nikolai moves toward the chair near the bed and sits down, not assuming he’s welcome beside me. Not assuming he’s allowed to touch me. He never touches me first, not unless I look like I’m about to fall apart. Even then he hesitates.

He rests his elbows on his knees and just studies me again. He always looks like he’s analyzing something, like he’s trying to decode a puzzle no one’s solved yet. Maybe that’s exactly what I am. A puzzle of broken pieces rearranged so many times the picture no longer makes sense.

“You’re quiet today,” he says.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not with me.”

That freezes me more than I’d like to admit.

I shrug, looking away. “I don’t know what to say.”

He nods once. Slowly.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

But I feel like I should.

I feel like I owe him something.

Not because he demands it—but because he gives too much and takes nothing.

“Do you… ever regret getting involved?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t react with surprise.

He doesn’t frown or scoff or make a face.

He just studies me.

“No,” he says simply. “Not once.”

I swallow hard.

I don’t know what to do with answers like that.

They’re too sincere. Too real.

“I didn’t expect any of this,” I admit quietly. “I didn’t expect someone to notice anything. I didn’t expect you to care.”

He leans back a little, still watching. “People should have cared before.”

The words hit me like a slap—not because they’re harsh, but because they’re true.

People should have cared.

People should have stepped in.

People should have seen.

But they didn’t.

Not until him.

Silence settles between us again.

Not heavy.

Not tense.

Just there.

“Blair,” he says softly, dragging my attention back to him. “You don’t have to be scared here.”

I close my eyes, and the truth cracks out of me before I can stop it.

“I’m scared everywhere.”

It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in years.

Nikolai doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rush toward me.

Doesn’t try to dismiss it or fix it.

He just nods.

Like it makes sense.

And somehow that helps.

“I know you are,” he says. “But you’re not alone in it.”

I look at him, and something in my chest tightens.

Not painfully.

Not sharply.

Just… tightly.

Like maybe my heart is trying to wake up.

“I’m trying,” I whisper.

“I know,” he answers. “And that’s enough.”

I don’t believe him.

But I want to.

He stays for a while after that, just sitting there, letting the silence exist without forcing it into something else. And I sit here too, trying to get used to the idea that quiet doesn’t always mean danger. That being looked at doesn’t always mean I’m in trouble. That being cared for doesn’t always come with strings.

Maybe this is what the start of healing looks like.

Not sudden.

Not perfect.

Just small moments that don’t hurt.

When he finally stands to leave, he pauses at the door.

“I’m in the next room if you need anything.”

I nod slowly.

And when the door clicks shut behind him, the silence feels different.

Not loud.

Not frightening.

Just… quiet.

For the first time in years,

I don’t want to run from it.