The silence of Vincent's townhouse pressed against Katherine like a weighted shroud. She lay still in the unfamiliar bed, eyes wide open as she stared at the high ceiling above her. The soft crackle of the fire in the hearth did little to settle her racing thoughts. The sheets beneath her were of the finest quality—smooth against her skin and fragrant with lavender. The mattress, firm yet yielding, cradled her body as though it were made to comfort her. Yet comfort remained elusive.
No matter how many times she adjusted, how many deep breaths she took, the sharp edge of wakefulness refused to dull. Sleep hovered just out of reach, mocking her.
Her mind replayed every moment of the night with relentless precision—the cruel smile of the man who tried to claim her, the chilling venom in Madame Dupont's threats, and Vincent's sudden, violent intervention. His rage had been absolute, terrifying even, yet he had wielded it for her. Not for his pride, not for power—but for her.
Vincent.
The name alone sent a flutter of warmth through her chest, quickly chased by a wave of caution. He had stood between her and danger without hesitation, without care for the consequences. No one had ever done that for her—not in all the years she had known. And when he looked at her, it wasn't with hunger or possessiveness like the men she'd endured for so long. It was something quieter, something steady and burning beneath the surface, as though he saw someone worth saving rather than someone to be used.
Katherine turned onto her side, pulling the soft blanket closer to her body. She shouldn't feel this way. She knew better than to let herself believe that men who fought for her existed outside of fanciful stories. Madame Dupont had taught her well—the world cared little for feelings. Debt, power, and ownership were what mattered. Nothing else.
A soft knock on the door shattered the silence.
Her breath caught. She sat up quickly, heart pounding in her chest. "Yes?" she called softly, instinctively clutching the blanket to herself.
The door creaked open, and Vincent stepped inside, his presence somehow grounding and unsettling all at once. He had changed from his bloodstained shirt into a fresh white one, its collar open, the top buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing strong, veined wrists. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as though he had run a hand through it one too many times.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Vincent said quietly, staying near the door. His voice was steady, but there was an underlying softness to it that surprised her. "I just wanted to check on you."
Katherine hesitated before replying. "I couldn't sleep."
Vincent nodded as though he had expected that. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his posture relaxed yet somehow tense beneath the surface. "Would you like some tea? Or perhaps a book?"
Her lips twitched. "You think a book would help me sleep?"
His mouth curved into a faint smirk. "Depends. If nothing else, I could read to you."
A small, genuine laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "That would be a sight."
But his expression shifted then, the playfulness retreating behind a wall of something more serious. "Katherine... about tonight—"
"I know," she interrupted quickly, not wanting to hear him apologize or explain. "It was reckless. You shouldn't have intervened."
Vincent's jaw tightened, his voice low. "I wasn't about to let him hurt you."
"You don't understand," she whispered harshly. "Men like him don't just forget humiliation. And Madame Dupont—"
"I'll handle her."
Katherine rose from the bed abruptly, pacing toward the fire, rubbing her arms. "You can't just handle her, Vincent. She's not some foolish client. She has connections. Power. You're putting yourself at risk for me, and I don't understand why."
He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "You don't have to understand. I told you I wouldn't let anything happen to you, and I meant it."
Her throat tightened. The simplicity of his words, the certainty in them, cut through her defenses more effectively than any grand speech ever could.
"You're going to get yourself killed," she said quietly.
"Perhaps," he replied, a flicker of dark amusement crossing his features. "But if it means you don't have to go back there, I'll take the risk."
Katherine should have told him to stop. She should have pushed him away, insisted that she could handle herself as she always had. But the weight of her exhaustion—the years of fighting, surviving, pretending—made the fight in her falter. She had spent so long being alone that the idea of someone standing beside her, even briefly, felt like a temptation too dangerous to resist.
Her voice came out soft and fragile. "Thank you."
Vincent's eyes softened immediately. He took a careful step closer, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Try to rest, Katherine."
She nodded, though they both knew sleep would remain elusive. She sat back on the bed, but before he could leave, she called out, "Vincent?"
He paused, hand on the door.
"Will you stay? Just for a little while?"
Vincent didn't hesitate. He crossed the room and settled into the armchair by the fire without a word, his presence solid and unwavering. He didn't press, didn't push. He simply remained.
Katherine lay back down, her eyes still on him. The soft glow of the fire bathed him in amber, shadows flickering across his features. His presence—steady, quiet, certain—lulled her into a calm she had not known for years.
And as her eyes drifted shut, a realization settled deep within her bones, an unsettling whisper against the rigid walls she had built to protect herself. This was dangerous. Not just the situation she had found herself in, not just the consequences of Vincent's defiance against Madame Dupont, but this—this feeling of safety, of warmth, of the possibility that someone could care without expectation. It was the kind of comfort that eroded defenses, that planted foolish hope in the heart of someone who had long since abandoned it.
She wasn't alone. The thought should have been reassuring, yet it sent a pang of unease through her. She had spent so long convincing herself that solitude was safer, that trust was a luxury she could never afford. But as she watched Vincent through heavy-lidded eyes, the weight of exhaustion pulling her toward the first hints of sleep, she wondered if—just for tonight—she could allow herself to believe in something more. Even if it was fleeting. Even if it was doomed.
Because for the first time in so many years, the loneliness that had been her constant companion felt just a little less suffocating.