12. Chapter 11
X iomara
The sunlight slips across the bed in long, golden lines, warming the pale silk sheets tangled around my legs.
I lie still, staring up at the high, sleek ceiling of the guest room. My new room. My new home.
The space around me feels too big, too polished, too still — a room designed to impress, not to comfort. But I tell myself, this space is mine now. This is where I will make a home. Not just for a year, but forever. And definitely not in a separate room from Zasha.
A soft laugh slips past my lips, though it’s tinged with nerves.
One step at a time, Xiomara.
My heart races quietly in my chest, thudding an uneven rhythm. Does Zasha feel this restlessness too? Did last night — the kiss, the weight of the vows, the way our eyes kept locking across the room — stir anything in him? Or was it all just duty, another move on the chessboard?
I turn onto my side, dragging a hand through my loose hair. The sheets are cool against my skin, the faint smell of fresh linen filling my nose.
I let out a long, soft sigh. There’s no point just lying here, wondering.
With a quiet groan, I throw back the covers, planting my bare feet on the cool floor. I stretch my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders to shake off the strange mix of tension and anticipation clinging to me.
The en-suite bathroom is a masterpiece of marble and glass, the kind of place you see in magazines but never expect to stand in. As I step under the hot spray of the shower, I close my eyes and let the water run over me, clearing away the lingering threads of sleep and doubt.
This is my home now. This is my life now. And if I have anything to say about it, I won’t be sleeping down the hall forever.
Wrapped in a soft robe, I pad quietly down the hallway, my bare feet whispering against the floors. The house is still, the kind of stillness that hums with money, power, and precision. Every surface gleams, every angle sharp — a fortress dressed in luxury.
When I step into the kitchen, I pause, eyes sweeping over the immaculate countertops, the high-end appliances gleaming under recessed lights.
Of course, even the kitchen in Zasha’s home feels like a fortress — beautiful but untouched, like no one ever steps in here to do something as mundane as make breakfast.
But that’s about to change.
I tie the robe a little tighter and move confidently toward the fridge, pulling it open. Fresh eggs. Cream. Butter. A tiny smirk touches my lips. He may not cook, but someone sure keeps this place stocked like a chef’s dream.
I gather what I need, pulling out a mixing bowl and whisk, humming softly under my breath.
It feels oddly grounding, standing here whisking eggs, stirring in flour, pouring batter onto the hot pan.
For a moment, I can almost pretend I’m back home in the Delgado kitchen, barefoot and laughing with my mother, the two of us cooking for my father after one of his long days.
The smell of pancakes fills the air — butter and vanilla, warm and rich — and I let the nostalgia wrap around me like a blanket. It’s a small comfort, but it’s mine.
I flip the pancakes expertly, watching the golden-brown surfaces bubble and crisp at the edges. My heart feels lighter than it has all morning, like maybe, just maybe, I can start my own traditions here and turn them into something Zasha would always look forward to.
I stack the fluffy pancakes onto a plate, setting them on the counter with a quiet sense of satisfaction. Just as I’m reaching for the syrup, I sense his presence, so I turn around, and there he is.
Zasha stands in the doorway, dark and sharp, his black T-shirt stretching across broad shoulders, damp hair tousled, eyes fixed on me.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in.
And then, in a voice, rough and low, he speaks: “You shouldn’t have done that.”
For a split second, his eyes flick from the stove to the stack of pancakes on the table, and then to me, still standing there barefoot, in the oversized robe, my cheeks faintly flushed, with a spatula still in hand.
His brows lift slightly, just a flicker of surprise, before he straightens his shoulders.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he repeats.
I swallow, then let out a soft, careful laugh.
“I wanted to. It is my way of saying thank you for accepting my offer,” I say, smiling lightly. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about food poisoning; I learned how to cook from my mom growing up.”
Something flickers across his face — a faint narrowing of his eyes, like I’ve just said something truly unexpected.
“Your mother…” he repeats slowly, stepping farther into the kitchen, “Lola Delgado… cooks? For Thiago?”
The surprise in his voice is genuine, not mocking, and for some reason, it makes me smile wider.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “She always has. Even with all the help in the house, she says it grounds her. She especially likes making breakfast — she calls it her little ritual for dad.”
Zasha exhales faintly, shaking his head like he can’t quite picture it.
His hands rest loosely on his hips, his broad frame taking up the doorway effortlessly.
“Well, we are not your mom and dad. You don’t have to bother yourself,” he murmurs, his tone softer but still guarded. “If you want, you can hire a cook. Any cook you like. Don’t… don’t feel like you are obligated to do this.”
Something in my chest squeezes unexpectedly.
I know he’s trying — in his own blunt, careful way — to tell me I’m not expected to play the perfect wife, not expected to serve or please him. But it also reminds me, painfully, of the line he’s determined to hold between us.
First, he puts me in a different room, now he is kicking against us eating together. It is beginning to feel as if getting him to marry me was actually the easy part in my plan.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and lift my chin slightly, offering him another small smile.
“I understand,” I say quietly. “After all… this is just an arrangement of convenience.”
Zasha’s gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering in his pewter eyes. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he lets the conversation drop.
We move around each other carefully, like two people trying to avoid touching a bruise.
I set out the plates. He pulls down two mugs from the cabinet.
Neither of us says much as we settle at the counter, and although we are side by side, we are also worlds apart.
As I pour syrup over my pancakes, I feel his quiet presence beside me like a weight — not heavy, exactly, but solid and undeniable.
I sneak a glance at him, watching the way his strong hands move, the precise cut of his jaw, the way his mouth sets into that familiar hard line.
He’s gorgeous, in a fierce, untouchable way. And yet, here we are, eating pancakes like two strangers forced into the same room.
I want to reach across the space between us, to ask him something real, something meaningful — but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I murmur, “I hope they’re not too sweet. My mom always said I had a heavy hand with the sugar.”
Zasha gives a small, distracted grunt, cutting into his food with military efficiency.
For a moment, we eat in silence, the only sounds are the quiet clinking of silverware and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
I let out a slow breath.
This is going to be way harder than I thought.
I sneak glances at Zasha between small bites, studying the sharp angle of his jaw as he focuses on his plate, the way his brow pulls slightly when he chews, the faint crease between his brows that never seems to leave.
He’s so… composed. So utterly still.
I swirl my fork in the syrup, trying to summon the courage to break the silence.
Say something, Mara. Anything.
I clear my throat lightly.
“So,” I begin, keeping my voice soft and casual, “have you always lived here? In New York, I mean?”
His eyes flick to me briefly, then back to his plate.
“No,” he says, his voice low and clipped. “Russia.”
I wait, hoping he’ll continue, but the silence stretches again.
Okay, Mara, you’re going to have to work your ass off for this.
I offer a small smile, trying again.
“Did you grow up in Moscow?”
Another pause.
“No.”
He cuts a piece of pancake carefully and sets his fork down.
“Foster care. Bounced around. Doesn’t matter where.”
I blink, feeling startled because I hadn’t expected that.
In my mind, Zasha has always been this untouchable, larger-than-life figure — the lethal enforcer, Viktor’s right hand, the man people lower their voices to speak about.
But sitting here, quietly telling me about foster care, about a childhood spent drifting…
It tugs at something deep inside me. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, heart beating a little faster.
“And when did you come here? To New York?”
He takes a slow sip of his own coffee, eyes shadowed.
“Eighteen.”
Another clipped answer.
I want to ask why — why leave, why come here, why walk into a world of shadows and blood — but I can feel the tension rising in him, the careful way he keeps his shoulders set, the subtle tightening of his jaw.
So instead, I offer something smaller, something safer.
“And you met Viktor here?”
That earns me the faintest flicker of something — the tiniest edge softening his voice.
“Yeah. Met Viktor here. We’ve been working together ever since.”
I let the quiet settle again, feeling the shape of it between us.
There’s so much I don’t know. So much he’s locked away, tucked behind his unreadable eyes and sharp edges.
And maybe… maybe it’s not just about being cold or distant. Maybe it’s about survival. Suddenly, I realize Zasha has been building walls his whole life just to stay standing.
The realization makes my chest ache unexpectedly.
We finish eating, the last bites disappearing as the plates empty. Without a word, Zasha stands, gathering up the dishes with efficient, practiced movements.
I blink, startled again.
He’s doing the dishes?
I watch from my seat as he moves to the sink, sleeves pushing up over his forearms, muscles flexing slightly as he runs the water and starts to rinse the plates.
The sight is oddly… tender.
Here is this gruff, lethal man — the Bratva enforcer everyone fears, the man who can shut down a room with a single glare — standing quietly at the sink, methodically washing breakfast dishes like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I wrap my arms around myself, heart tugging in a way I’m not prepared for. There’s something intimate about it, something quietly human. Something that makes me want, desperately, to know the man behind the hard lines and the gruff voice.
When he finishes, he dries his hands on a towel and glances over his shoulder at me. Our eyes meet for the briefest second — and then he looks away, setting the towel down with careful precision.
The moment slips away, leaving behind only the silence.
“So,” he says quietly, his voice steady, businesslike, “what are your plans for the day?”
I blink, caught off guard by the question.
For a moment, I almost tell him I have no plans — but then I realize, with a faint wave of frustration, that if I stay here all day, I’m going to lose my mind.
“I think…” I say slowly, setting my coffee mug down, “I’ll go back to my parents’ house to grab some of my things. And…” I let out a small laugh, shaking my head, “Honestly, I’ll go stir-crazy if I sit here doing nothing all day.”
Zasha’s mouth tugs faintly at the corner — not quite a smile, but not a frown either.
“I’m sorry I can’t keep you company.” He says simply while putting away our cups with precise movements. “I have business, and won’t be home early. Don’t wait up.”
His tone is neutral and cool, with the words free of anything personal. It feels like a door softly closing between us.
I nod, smoothing my hands over the robe tied around my waist.
“Okay,” I murmur, forcing my voice to stay light. “I’ll see you later, then.”
He gives a small, polite nod, stepping back slightly to give me space.
As I head upstairs to change, I can feel the chill of his distance wrapping around me like a shadow. By the time I’m dressed and walking out the door, my heart aches in a way I hadn’t expected.
But there is no need to take his coldness personally; after all, this isn’t a love match. This is an alliance. A deal I personally brokered. But still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be able to reach the man buried under all that coldness.
I pull into the long driveway of the Delgado estate, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease just slightly as I step out of the car. Inside, everything is bright and bustling — the soft murmur of staff, the clink of glasses being polished in the kitchen, the rustle of fresh linens.
Heading upstairs to my room, I walk through the space with a tinge of sadness in my heart. I glance around to ensure that everything I need to move to my new home.
While stuffing a small bag, there’s a soft knock at the door. “ Mija?”
I turn, smiling faintly as my mother steps into the room, elegant as ever in a fitted cream dress, her dark hair pinned back in a sleek twist. She crosses to me, her sharp eyes softening as she takes in my face.
“Was told you are around,” Mom murmurs, brushing a light hand over my arm. “How was your first night in your new home?”
I hesitate, fingers curling around the strap of the bag.
“It was…” I search for the right word, something that won’t sound too pitiful or too strained, “…quiet.”
Mom gives me a knowing look, her lips curving just slightly.
“Quiet,” she echoes softly. “And?”
I let out a slow breath, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.
“He’s polite,” I admit quietly. “But closed-off. Hard to read. It feels like I’m knocking on a door he’s never going to open.”
My mother sits beside me, her perfume familiar and comforting.
She takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Give it time, mija,” she says softly. “You have a good heart. And sometimes…” her voice dips, warm with quiet wisdom, “…sometimes the hardest men fall the deepest when you least expect it.”
Her words have me on the brink of tears, but I swallow the sudden lump rising in my throat and lean into her, wrapping my arms around her tightly. Her arms come around me without hesitation, holding me close, steady, grounding.
For a moment, I close my eyes, just breathing in her warmth.
I’m not going to give up, I tell myself silently.