11. Chapter 10
Z asha
The room purrs with tension.
Not loud or flashy—no, this kind of tension is subtle and sharp, the kind that settles into the corners of a gathering like this. All glittering crystal, polished marble, silk tablecloths, and cold calculations hide behind polite smiles.
Cartel power players shake hands with Bratva associates under the hum of soft music. Waiters glide through with champagne and delicate canapés, and somewhere in the corner, old men laugh too loud over cigars, their wives glittering at their sides.
I stand off to one side, a glass in hand, Viktor and Lev flanking me.
We’ve done this a hundred times before — the power gatherings, the alliances, the masked games — but tonight feels different.
Tonight, my eyes find Mara across the room without meaning to. She glows under the lights, her soft ivory dress fitting her like a second skin, understated with minimal beadings yet unforgettable.
She moves through the crowd with practiced grace — polite smiles, quiet nods, delicate thanks — the perfect cartel daughter. But every now and then, I catch a glimpse of something else.
The way she laughs when someone says something genuinely funny, head tilting slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
The little flick of her fingers when she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The flash of something sharp and alive beneath all the polished surface.
I take a slow sip of my drink, reassuring myself that it’s just physical. Just admiration. After all, she’s a beautiful woman, and it’s normal to notice.
But deep down, I know it’s more.
It’s the pull I’ve been fighting since the moment I agreed to this arrangement — the quiet, insistent itch under my skin that refuses to go away.
Lev leans in slightly, grinning faintly.
“Careful, Zee… if you keep staring, people will start thinking you actually like your wife.”
I grunt, muttering under my breath,
“Shut up, Lev.”
Viktor, sharp-eyed as always, gives me a long look, one brow arching slightly.
“Leave the poor groom alone, Lev,” he says smoothly — but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes that tells me he’s in on the teasing too.
I narrow my gaze at both of them, shaking my head.
“You two are impossibly worse than your wives.”
Lev smirks, and Viktor gives me a slow nod of agreement.
I let out a quiet breath, finishing the last sip of my drink. I've had enough of standing here like a carved statue. I set the glass down, straightening slightly, and step away from them. I can feel their smirks follow me all the way across the room.
As I make my way toward Mara, weaving through the clusters of powerful men and sharp-eyed women, I tell myself it’s just for appearances. That I have to stand beside my wife to show the room that we are united.
But deep down, there’s a truth I can’t shake.
I want to be near her.
Not just for strategy. Not just for the deal. But because her true self—those little flashes of warmth, sharpness, and the spark she tries so hard to hide—cuts through every wall I’ve built.
And they make me crave something I have no business craving.
The night drifts toward its end.
Mara stands beside me, graceful and poised, her soft laugh sliding through the air as we exchange thank-yous and polite handshakes.
Guests pass by in a slow stream — cartel captains, Bratva associates, old family friends, men with sharp eyes and dangerous smiles.
We smile back and nod. Accepting toasts as they come. She moves through it all with effortless grace, her hand resting lightly on my arm when needed, her voice smooth and controlled.
But beneath it, I can feel the tension crackling between us.
There’s no honeymoon planned. No glamorous escape, no five-star suite, no whirlwind trip to some private island. This isn’t that kind of marriage. While I now wish we had all those things planned, I have to remind myself that she doesn’t want me touching her.
She made it clear this isn’t love. This is her escape hatch. Her one-year ticket to freedom.
I am her fucking escape route.
As the last of the guests drift away, Mara turns to her parents.
Thiago Delgado, the man so many fear, leans in to kiss his daughter’s cheek gently, his eyes soft in a way I’ve never seen. His hand lingers briefly on her shoulder, his voice low and affectionate as he murmurs something just for her.
Beside him, Lola — elegant, and sharp-eyed — wraps Mara in a hug, smoothing her hair back, also whispering words I can’t hear. Mara’s eyes glimmer slightly as she pulls back, giving them both a warm smile.
And for the first time, I see it.
The soft underbelly of the Delgado family. The part the outside world never gets to witness.
They love her fiercely, and although they’re letting her go tonight, it’s clear they don’t do it lightly.
We step out into the cool night air, the hush of the world wrapping around us. Mara shivers slightly, hugging her arms around herself. For a second, just a second, I almost reach out to take her hand and pull her close.
But I stop myself.
Instead, I clear my throat, forcing my voice steady.
“Did you pack your things?”
She glances up, eyes soft and curious.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “But I’ll move them tomorrow.”
I nod once; it makes sense for her to want to familiarize herself with her new environment before moving her belongings. I’d wanted to ask her to move her things in before the wedding. But I hadn’t wanted to seem pushy.
The truth is, Xiomara Delgado is growing on me, and I need to find a way to make her want me. I have a year to convince her that I’m more than the grumpy bastard everyone sees.
And I am going to start by showing her I can be a gentleman.
The drive back to my house is wrapped in silence.
Mara sits beside me, hands folded neatly in her lap, her face turned slightly toward the window. The city lights slip past, glittering like scattered diamonds. I grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary, knuckles pale, and jaw set.
But with every breath, I can smell the faint trace of her perfume, light and soft, curling through the air between us. Every time I steal a glance, I catch the delicate line of her profile, the shimmer of her earrings, the elegant curve of her neck.
I’ve fought wars on streets where men didn’t walk away alive. I’ve outplayed rivals and taken down dozens of enemies all by myself. So why does sitting beside this woman, this slip of a bride, make me feel like I’m crossing a minefield barefoot?
When we pull up to the house, I kill the engine and step out, moving to open her door. She looks up at me, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to speak — but then she just murmurs a “Thank you,” and steps out gracefully.
The house looms before us: a sleek, modern fortress of steel and glass, sharp-edged and cold.
It suits me.
Clean lines. No clutter. No softness.
I’ve lived here alone for years, except for the vetted cleaner who comes in twice a week, and I’ve kept it that way for a reason. But tonight, for the first time, it feels… different.
Like it’s holding its breath and waiting for her approval.
Inside, the silence stretches between us. Her heels click lightly on the polished floor as I lead her up the sweeping staircase, past minimalist artwork and high windows reflecting the city’s faint glow.
She moves quietly, gracefully — but I can sense the fucking tension in her, too. We’re strangers in the same space. Bound together by vows we barely spoke.
At the end of the hall, I pause.
I open the door to the guest suite — large, softly lit, tastefully decorated. I mentally clear my throat, keeping my voice level.
“This will be your room.”
She turns to me, her expression composed, eyes calm. Is it relief I see in them?
“Thank you, Zasha.” She says with a small, polite smile and a nod.
She slips past me, disappearing into the room, the soft whisper of the door closing behind her. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the wood. My heart pounds harder than I want to admit, a heavy, restless beat against my ribs.
It feels as if I have to fight all the demons from hell to keep from knocking, no, pulling down her door and demanding she ride me till dawn.
I shake off the urge and walk to my room, closing the door with a soft click. Shutting out the hallway, the house, and the world. For a moment, I stand there in the dark, back against the wood, head tipped back, eyes closed.
My chest feels tight — too tight — like the weight I’ve carried for years has suddenly doubled.
I pull off my jacket, throwing it over the chair, and scrub both hands roughly over my face.
A low, frustrated breath claws out of me.
No woman has ever made me sexually frustrated before, and now here is Mara under my roof, and I am being forced to be a gentle man, because I want to woo her like any sane man should.
But then I am not fucking sane.
I turn away sharply, ripping at the buttons of my shirt, dragging it off and tossing it aside.
I collapse onto the bed, flat on my back, eyes locked on the ceiling. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I raise them and punch the pillow once, twice, twisting it into any shape I think will help.
It doesn’t.
All I can see, even in the dark, is the curve of her mouth, the flash of mischief in her eyes when she teased me, the way she moved across the room like she owned it.
I drag a hand over my face again, rough and frustrated.
Goddammit.
I roll onto my side, punching the pillow into place and squeezing my eyes shut. But sleep refuses to come.
The real war tonight isn’t with rivals or enemies. It isn’t on the streets or in the shadows. It’s here. Right in this room. My cock hardens as my body rages against itself.