14. Chapter 13
Z asha
My house is quiet when I step through the front door, the kind of quiet that feels lived-in rather than cold. That’s new.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, moving silently down the hallway. I’m not sure what I expect — maybe the usual stillness, the empty echo of a space that’s been mine and mine alone for years.
But then I hear it.
Music.
Soft, low, some jazzy instrumental thing playing through a speaker, the kind of background noise that turns a house into a home. I follow the sound toward the kitchen, steps instinctively silent, and the moment I reach the threshold, I freeze.
Mara is barefoot, her long hair cascading down her back in loose waves, wearing one of those soft t-shirts she prefers when she thinks she is alone.
She’s dancing — not for anyone, not for effect, just… dancing.
Her hips sway with the rhythm, one hand whisking something in a bowl while the other taps the counter to the beat. She spins on her toes, laughing softly to herself as she nearly slips but catches her balance.
She doesn’t see me yet. I should move, maybe announce myself, or say something. But I don’t. I stay rooted where I am, watching with unreadable eyes as the girl I married — the one I thought I’d coexist with — reveals a new piece of herself.
There’s something real and unguarded behind her elegance. And it gets under my skin. I lean slightly against the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressing into a firm line — but inside, my chest feels tight. Unsettled.
She’s not what I expected. Definitely not a huathy cartel princess. She’s light, funny, and even quirky. And when she thinks no one’s watching, she lets her real personality come out to play.
There’s flour dusting her cheek. A smudge of sauce on her wrist. Her laughter bubbles up again as she bumps her hip against a drawer she forgot to close.
I feel my mouth twitch, and before I realize it, I’m smiling. An actual, rare smile. And it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. Because suddenly I’m wondering how the hell I’m supposed to survive another eleven months of this.
Of watching her move through my house like she belongs, like she’s meant to be here. Of her warmth, her mouth, her laugh. Her bare feet padding down my hall. How the fuck am I supposed to survive months of wanting her, and not touching her?
I scrub a hand across my jaw, forcing the smile off my face before she turns and sees it.
I step back into the hallway as quietly as I came, retreating before I do something stupid — like walk in and kiss her the way I’ve been dying to do.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I find the dining room bathed in soft amber light, just the glow from the fixture above and a single flickering candle Mara must’ve lit while I was cleaning up.
The food is simple — grilled chicken, sautéed vegetables, something citrusy on the side that I can’t name but tastes like it took effort.
We eat quietly at first.
No clatter, no awkward small talk. Just the sound of cutlery against porcelain and the occasional tap of her foot against the leg of her chair.
She hums softly, not a tune I recognize, just under her breath — like it slips out without permission.
Her hair is still a little damp from her shower. She's tied it up in a messy bun, a few strands curling against her neck. She's wearing one of those light cashmere sweaters, soft enough to look like a cloud, and no makeup, just her.
I look at her for a long moment before I speak.
“You’re not what I expected.”
She looks up, brows lifting in mock surprise.
“Really?”
“Really.” I set my fork down. “I figured you’d be… colder. Harder. Entitled.”
Her lips twitch.
“Let me guess. A spoiled cartel princess with a diamond phone case and a bodyguard I scream at for bringing me the wrong kind of champagne?”
I grunt.
“Something like that.”
She grins, leaning forward slightly, chin in her palm.
“Well, you’re not what I expected either.”
I raise a brow.
“Oh?”
“No,” she says, tilting her head as if she’s examining me. “I thought you’d be rude. Brooding. Completely humorless.”
I narrow my eyes.
“I am humorless.”
She snorts. “You smiled earlier.”
My pulse kicks up.
So she saw that.
I keep my expression flat, picking up my glass.
“You were flailing around the kitchen like you were under attack by the whisk. It was hard not to laugh.”
“That wasn’t flailing,” she says, gasping in mock offense. “That was rhythm.”
I take a slow sip of wine, letting myself enjoy the moment more than I should.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” she replies, proud and unapologetic.
We both laugh.
A real, low, shared laugh that settles something between us — not explosive, not world-changing, but steady. Human.
I feel my guard shift. Not fall completely — that never happens — but cracks just enough to let the warmth in.
She watches me after that, her head tilted slightly, eyes full of curiosity, not calculation.
“You don’t let many people in, do you?” she asks softly.
I meet her gaze.
“No.”
She nods like she already knew. We finish dinner with more silence, but it’s different now. Not empty and awkward, but more like companionable and comfortable. The kind of silence that’s shared rather than endured.
After I clear the plates, she leans back in her chair and stretches, her arms above her head, the sweater pulling slightly at the hem. My eyes linger for just a second before I force myself to look away because I’m already in trouble with this woman.
The ballroom is too polished. Too loud. Too full of people pretending not to be dangerous.
Crystal chandeliers throw gold light over men in tuxedos and women in shimmering gowns. Laughter rings through the air, brittle and hollow, bouncing off marble columns and gilded mirrors.
I hate these things.
Too many snakes in suits. Too many smiles with fangs behind them.
But tonight, I don’t blend into the shadows alone.
Mara walks beside me, her hand light on my arm, her heels clicking softly on the floor. She’s in a dark green dress that hugs her waist and leaves her shoulders bare, her hair twisted up, loose tendrils framing her face.
Heads turn when we enter.
And for once, it’s not because of me.
She’s radiant. Elegant. But what guts me a little is the fact that she doesn’t even know it.
She nods politely as people greet us — cartel wives, business associates, men I’ve had to threaten into silence over the years. She’s poised, graceful… but I see it, the way her fingers tighten slightly on my arm when someone she doesn’t know leans in too close.
I keep her close.
I don’t speak much — I never do — but I don’t let her stray too far either.
Until Cristóbal.
He swoops in like he’s been waiting for his moment.
Slick bastard. Always too smooth, too familiar, too full of himself.
“Mara,” he says with that too-easy grin, stepping between me and her. “You look… breathtaking.”
She laughs softly, tilting her head. “Cristóbal.”
Cristóbal leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, his hand settling on her lower back.
My jaw tightens as he begins to talk to me. “I am still not happy that you did not consult me before marrying Mara.”
“And why should I? You are only a family friend,” I say candidly.
He brushes off my statement and instead launches into some memory, something about a summer trip to Barcelona, a boat ride, the two of them nearly falling overboard.
Mara chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re exaggerating.”
Cristóbal grins. “I’m just telling it how I remember it.”
Then he says something in Spanish I don’t quite catch — soft, teasing. She laughs again, and my blood starts to simmer.
That delighted sound belongs to only me. It doesn’t matter that I have not yet figured out how to keep her, but one thing I know is that she is mine.
I step forward, just enough to stand between them. Making Cristóbal blink with surprise.
“I don’t think my wife needs your attention, Cristóbal.” My voice is low, even, but laced with ice.
A few nearby conversations falter. The tension sharpens.
Cristóbal straightens, his smile fading.
“Of course,” he says smoothly, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You did,” I say simply.
He looks at me with a surprised look, then gives a small smile and excuses himself.
The rest of the event passes in a blur, and we stay only as long as necessary, long enough to be polite, and short enough not to risk another awkward moment.
The ride home feels a bit tense. Her posture is straight, with her hands gently folded in her lap, and she stares out the window, avoiding my gaze.
I sneak a few looks at her, feeling a strong desire to ask what she’s thinking. Yet, I have a sinking feeling I already know. After crossing a line with her childhood friend tonight, she will certainly make it clear how badly I’ve screwed up.
When we reach the house, the air feels supercharged with electricity, ready to explode. Mara walks ahead of me, her back stiff, her steps clipped. She pauses in the foyer, pulls off her heels one at a time, and sets them down with far more force than necessary.
Then she turns to face me, her arms crossed and eyes blazing.
“Don’t,” she says, voice low and furious, “stand there like you didn’t just act like a possessive caveman in front of half the cartel.”
I stiffen, jaw tight.
“He was—”
“—He is a family friend,” she cuts in sharply. “One I’ve known all my life. One who was talking to me, not pawing me, not trying to overstep his boundaries, just talking.”
I step forward, teeth grinding.
“His hand was on you.”
“So?”
“I did not like that.”
Her laugh is short and incredulous. “Oh, so now I belong to you? That’s interesting.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Mara—”
“No.” She lifts a hand, her voice trembling now. “You’ve kept me at arm’s length since day one, Zasha. You don’t touch me. You’ve made it clear that I am not desirable. You are not interested in me as a woman. And yet tonight—” she takes a shaky breath—“you act like I’m yours?”
I stare at her, chest rising and falling slowly, struggling to find words.
“Because you are,” I say, voice rough. “You’re my wife.”
Her mouth twists.
“Only on paper. And you’ve made it very clear you don’t find me attractive. So what was tonight?” Her voice cracks now, just slightly. “Ego? Possession? Territory?”
I feel like I’ve taken a punch to the gut.
I move toward her slowly, my voice raw.
“You think I don’t want you?”
Her arms drop, lips parting, but no sound comes out.
And that’s it.
Something in me snaps. I reach for her — not carefully, not with caution, but with every bit of tension and hunger I’ve been fighting since the moment she moved into this house.
I pull her into my arms, and her gasp barely escapes before my mouth claims hers. There is nothing soft about this kiss.
It’s not gentle.
It’s weeks of restraint unraveling all at once—fierce, desperate, and confused.
She melts into me and pushes back at the same time, her fingers fisting in my shirt, tugging me closer, anchoring herself against the storm we’re building.
The kiss deepens, turning from wild into something more dangerous: something that feels primal.
I break the kiss, just enough to rest my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling. My voice is a rasp when I speak. “Don’t you ever think that again.”
Her eyes search mine; she looks soft and overwhelmed—but she doesn’t pull away.
I hook an arm under her legs and lift her easily. She gasps again, but doesn’t fight it. I carry her down the hall, her arms looped loosely around my neck, her face pressed against my throat.
The walls I’ve built are cracking just from her being in my arms.