When the door clicked shut behind him, Xavier leaned against it for a moment, drawing in a slow breath as though to steady himself. His mind replayed the scene in jagged fragments-her pale face, the shallow gasps, the stubborn way she fought him even while her body was failing.
It shouldn't have shaken him like this. He had seen people die before. He'd walked away from worse without a second thought. But with her…
He'd been seconds from losing her.
That thought gnawed at him. And he didn't like the way it made his chest feel—tight, restless, on edge. He didn't like how easily her absence at the breakfast table had sent a thread of panic lacing through him.
No, he told himself. He wouldn't let it happen again.
She was reckless, unpredictable, far too willing to test limits. If she could disappear this morning without him knowing, she could just as easily vanish—or worse—right under his nose.
Xavier pushed away from the door, his expression hardening into resolve.
He wouldn't give her that freedom anymore.
From now on, Jemma would be kept close. Not locked away, he wasn't a jailer, but within sight, within reach. She'd work where he could see her. She'd move when he allowed it. And if she thought she could defy him like she had this morning… she'd learn otherwise.
The irony didn't escape him, he was doing exactly what he'd told himself not to do: making exceptions, letting her matter. But the alternative was letting her scare him like this again, and that was unacceptable.
He started walking back toward his study, already planning the subtle changes. The seating arrangements at meals. The reassignment of her tasks. The quiet word to the staff to make sure she was always accounted for.
In his mind, it wasn't about control.
It was about prevention.
It was about never feeling that hollow, icy fear again.
And if keeping her closer meant she became even more of a weakness…
Well.
He would deal with that later.
From that morning on, Xavier's eyes seemed to follow Jemma no matter where she went in the house.
Not in the casual, distracted way he sometimes watched her before, but in a way that told her he was keeping count of every breath she took.
It didn't matter if she was sweeping the corridor, arranging books in his study, or bringing him a cup of coffee — his gaze lingered, heavy, always assessing.
The way his expression darkened when she hummed too long.
The way his jaw clenched when she coughed, even lightly.
She noticed it most in the silence between his orders.
Before, when he finished telling her what to do, he'd turn away without a second thought. Now, there were moments he lingered, as if waiting for her to sway or collapse again.
At first, Jemma thought it was just because she'd scared him that morning, that maybe he was still angry.
But then, one afternoon while she was dusting in the hallway, she heard him speaking quietly in his office to one of his men.
> "She doesn't leave my sight unless I say so.
If I'm not here, you make sure someone is watching her. Always."
The order was delivered in the same low, dangerous tone he used when giving a hit instruction.
It should have made her bristle, and it did. But it also made something twist uncomfortably in her chest.
He wasn't only being possessive. He was being careful.
The changes started small.
She was no longer sent to run errands that took her away from the main building or down to the storerooms without someone trailing her. If he had business in another part of the estate, she was told to stay in the library, his office, or the lounge, somewhere within shouting distance.
Lucy, the older maid she trusted, became her constant shadow whenever Xavier wasn't in the room. Jemma suspected this wasn't Lucy's choice; it was his arrangement.
Still, life under Xavier wasn't exactly peaceful.
She didn't suddenly obey him like a docile pet, if anything, her resistance sharpened, especially when she caught him watching her like she might shatter. She didn't like being handled like a fragile thing. And yet… she caught herself humming less when he was close, not wanting to see that flicker of tension in his eyes.
But Xavier was a busy man.
No matter how tightly he wanted to keep her leashed to his side, the world outside demanded his attention.
The first time he had to leave after the incident, it was at dawn. Jemma woke to the sound of heavy steps in the hallway and low voices outside her door.
By the time she stepped out, he was in a charcoal suit, fixing his cufflinks, his men standing by the entrance with weapons at their sides.
He looked at her once: a slow, assessing sweep, then crossed the distance between them.
"Stay inside," he said, voice low and deliberate.
It wasn't a suggestion.
She lifted a brow. "What if I don't feel like it?"
His hand caught her chin, firm but not bruising, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You will. Because I said so."
There was no heat in it, only that unblinking seriousness that made it impossible to tell whether he was threatening or protecting her.
He left without another word, and for the rest of the day, two guards stationed themselves near whichever room she was in.
It became a rhythm.
Whenever Xavier left for mafia business, meetings in shadowy back rooms, settling scores, "taking care of" problems that never got explained, he made arrangements for her to be watched. Sometimes Lucy would keep her company, sometimes it was one of his trusted men.
And every time he returned, late and tired, his first move wasn't to pour himself a drink or loosen his tie. It was to find her.
Sometimes she'd be in the lounge reading, sometimes curled on the sofa pretending to be asleep, sometimes in his office because she'd decided to "borrow" it while he was gone.
And every time, he would stand there for a moment, silent, eyes running over her like he was counting all the ways she could have been taken from him in the hours he was away.