8. Chapter 6
M ara
I close my bedroom door behind me, heart still racing.
The house is quiet, the thick hush of late night settling over the estate, but inside me, everything feels loud.
My skin still hums from dinner, from the way Zasha’s fingers brushed my jaw, from the searing press of his lips on mine. It had been brief, yet enough to leave my heart flipping every time I think about it.
I slip off my shoes and sink onto the edge of the bed, pressing trembling fingers to my mouth.
Fuck.
I never thought tonight would go like that. Never thought I would get to live out one of my deepest fantasies. To have Zasha’s lips on mine.
And boy, did my fantasy fall short?
My phone buzzes sharply on the nightstand, shattering the delicate bubble I’m in.
I glance over and roll my eyes.
Cristóbal.
It is moments like these that I regret not having female friends anymore. I swipe up the screen, frowning at the five missed calls, the unread messages lined up in neat, angry rows.
Of course. He’s not going to let this go.
With a resigned sigh, I pick up the phone and hit call back.
The line barely rings once before his voice comes sharp, tense.
“Why didn’t you answer the first time I called?”
I close my eyes for a moment, gathering myself.
“Cristóbal, I—”
His voice barrels right over me.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours, Xiomara! What the hell is going on?”
Frustration sparks low in my chest.
Why is it always this way with him? Why does he act like I owe him every detail, every minute of my time? I know everyone says he is like the big brother I never had, but damn, he can be fucking overbearing sometimes.
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my voice even.
“I was busy.”
“Busy with what?” His voice sharpens further, a knife’s edge of suspicion. “What could possibly be more important than answering your phone?”
I feel my fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket, and my patience snaps.
“I was on a date, Cristóbal.”
“You were on a what?”
“Date.”
There’s a pause, then his voice comes through sounding excited and curious. “With who? How come you did not tell me you have decided on someone, and spoken to your dad about it?”
“With Zasha from the bratva. And I didn’t speak to my father about him; they must have heard my father is shopping for a groom and decided to offer an alliance by marriage.”
For a second, the line goes dead, then his voice comes through again, high and piercing.
“You have to be fucking kidding me right now.”
I wince, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear as his voice rises with sharp outrage.
“You’re letting yourself be handed off to the motherfucking Russians?” he spits. “There are men here — our men — who are more than capable of being your husband! You can’t seriously be okay with this! I can recommend a few if you aren’t sure who to choose.”
A knot twists in my chest, uneasy and tight.
I should tell him the truth — that I’m not being forced, that I want this, that I was the one who approached Zasha in the first place. But his rage holds me back, and deep down, I know Cristóbal won’t understand.
Not the way I want him to.
He’s been my friend since childhood, my confidant and protector in small ways.
He’s seen me at my worst and cheered me on when I felt down.
When my parents cut off the few friends I had after I was almost kidnapped at seventeen, he gave me a shoulder to cry on.
Now, I somehow feel like I’m disappointing him.
“Cristóbal…” I begin carefully, but he cuts me off.
“Did you even talk to your father like I told you to?” he demands, voice tight, sharp. “Did you even try, Mara?”
I swallow hard, feeling a flicker of guilt — not because I didn’t try, but because I handled things my way. I know how much he hates the Russians. He thinks they are accorded more respect than they deserve, and that my father should never have brought them close in the first place.
Before I can form an answer, there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Mara?” My mother’s voice is gentle and warm. “Can I come in?”
I freeze for half a second.
“Cristóbal, I have to go,” I say quickly, my voice a little breathless. “I’ll call you back.”
He’s still mid-sentence when I hang up.
My mother steps in — graceful as ever, her dark hair pinned back neatly, a faint trace of perfume following her like a whisper of flowers.
She smiles softly, eyes sweeping over me as she closes the door behind her.
“How did the date go, sweetheart?”
For a second, I freeze, heart thudding.
Does she know about the kiss? About how Zasha’s hand felt cupping my jaw, the way his mouth seared against mine?
No. Of course not.
I breathe out carefully, trying to steady my voice.
“It… went well.”
My mother moves to the edge of the bed, sitting gently, her hands reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Her fingers are warm, familiar — and suddenly, a lump rises in my throat.
Because, no matter how poised and polished she always is, my mother has always been a soft place in this world where I can collapse.
She watches me thoughtfully, her expression tender.
“Then why are you upset?”
I laugh softly, the sound thin and brittle.
“Cristóbal called.”
Her brows lift slightly, questioning without words why Cristóbal’s call should upset me.
“He wants me to marry within the cartel.” I frown. “Says there are capable men who should have been Papa’s first choice of candidates. “Now I am beginning to worry. Do you think this alliance would weaken us?”
My mother’s eyes soften, her hand resting lightly over mine.
“You know it would not. If anything, it will expand your father's reach.”
“So, Zasha is not a bad choice?”
“No, he is the perfect choice.”
“How come Papa did not propose this to the bratva sooner?”
My mother looks me in the eye, “I want you to know, Mija, I’ve been holding your father back.”
I blink, caught off guard.
“From what?”
“From arranging your marriage,” she says quietly, fingers squeezing mine gently. “I kept hoping… maybe you’d find someone yourself. A love match, like your father and I had.”
Something stirs in my chest — a bittersweet ache because I have found someone. But I can’t tell her. Not when I know how close she and my father are, how every word between us might slip its way to his ears.
They’re a united front, my parents. Always have been.
And some things… some feelings… I’m not ready to share.
I lean forward, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face against her shoulder.
She holds me tightly, murmuring softly, stroking my hair the way she did when I was small.
“I’ll make the best of it, Mama,” I whisper, voice steady.
She pulls back slightly, her eyes glimmering, her smile both proud and wistful.
“I know you will, mi reina .”
We sit like that for a while, quiet and close, the hush of the room wrapping around us.
And deep inside, I make another silent vow: I’ll make the best of it — yes.
But more than that…
I will fight for what I want, even if no one knows it yet.
The door clicks softly behind my mother as she leaves, and for the first time all night, the room feels still.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the soft lamp casting a warm, gentle glow across the sheets. My fingers drift across the pillow, absently tracing the embroidered edges, my heart thudding a little faster with every breath.
“In a few weeks,” I whisper aloud to the empty room, “I will become his wife.”
The words send a rush of heat racing through me.
Not just because of the arrangement, the politics, or the weight of what this means for my family — but because of Zasha Petrov.
The man I’ve watched from afar for years, the man whose sharp eyes and cold, lethal calm have always stirred something deep and restless inside me.
And now, I’ll stand at his side — as his wife.
My fingers tighten on the pillow, and I press it faintly against my chest, heart fluttering wildly as my mind flickers back to tonight. To his mouth on mine.
The way his hand fit perfectly around the side of my face, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone, the firm pull of his body as he drew me in and kissed me like he meant to burn the memory into my skin.
If that kiss was any indication of what is to come…
My cheeks flush hot, and I squeeze my eyes shut, the image vivid and thrilling. What will it feel like to be naked in his arms? To feel that restrained, barely-leashed power fully focused on me? A shiver slips down my spine — part nerves, part excitement, part pure, breathless want.
But then doubt creeps in, curling its cold fingers around the edges of my thoughts. Is he thinking about me too? Or is this—to him—nothing but a transaction?
A political maneuver, a tactical alliance, another box checked off in his careful, calculated life? I hug the pillow tighter, biting my lip. We never said anything about sex being off the table in our arrangement, and I hope he understands it to be an invitation to take what I am offering.
Drawing a slow breath, I close my eyes and let the thought settle deep inside me, shaping itself into a quiet, fierce vow.
I’ll find a way to make this year count.
I don’t care how distant he tries to be or how tightly he wraps himself in walls and armor.
One way or another, I’m determined to win his heart.
Not just as part of a bargain. Not just as a name on paper. But as his.
Fully, truly, and completely his.