20. Chapter 17
Z asha
I walk into the room to find her already asleep in my bed.
She’s been there every night since Luisa died, and there is no way I am letting her go back to a different bed.
She is curled up on her side, wearing one of my shirts like it belongs to her.
And it secretly makes me happy to see her comfortable in my clothes,
although I would rather have her out of them and naked next to me.
I’ve stayed beside her every night, burning with lust, yet I haven’t laid a single hand on her.
Not because I didn’t want to. Fuck, my cock is straining from wanting to.
But I have restraining myself because I couldn’t.
Not when she’s been so broken with grief.
So, I’ve done my best to wait while I burn up with passion.
Waited, while she murmured in her sleep. Waited, while she pressed her face to my chest and cried until her body went limp, and her thigh slips over mine.
I feel my body stir, and my shaft begin to rise, and I know I have to walk away, or I won’t be able to control myself much longer.
Sitting alone in my office in the dark, one hand cradling a half-finished glass of scotch, the other twitching with the ghost of her presence.
The light from my laptop glows faintly on the desk, casting long shadows across the floor.
I should be going through shipment reports, security footage, intel briefings.
But all I can think about is Mara.
How she loves the simple things in life, how she dances barefoot and forgets she’s doing it. The way she grieves like the people she loves are stitched into her soul. She teases me like I’m made for her amusement. And the fucked-up thing is... I want to be.
I want to be the reason she throws her head back and laughs with reckless abandon. I want to be the one she comes home to. The one who gets to watch her in all her moods — fierce, playful, sad, stubborn, radiant.
I’ve seen a part of her most people never will. The softest parts. The wildest, too. I’ve seen her strength, not in the way she fights, but in the way she crumbles and keeps going anyway.
And God help me… I don’t just want her.
I love her.
That’s the first time I let myself admit it.
The word drops into my chest like a bullet — silent, sharp, final.
I love her.
I love the mess of her. The beauty of her. The stubbornness and the mischief and the quiet way she looks at me like she knows I’m dangerous and still doesn’t flinch.
Fuck pride. Fuck fear.
I’ve spent years alone in my own head, behind walls no one was invited to climb. But she walked right in — barefoot, humming, leaving warmth everywhere.
She didn’t tear those walls down. She just looked at them until they didn’t make sense anymore. And now I can’t imagine this house without her voice echoing through the halls. Can’t imagine my bed without the press of her body beside me.
But I do not want her body only, I want to be worthy of her. I want to be the man she chooses to stay with, and if I am willing to earn the right to be next to her.
I need to show her with effort and intention that I want to be hers. And starting tomorrow morning, I will.
I drain the rest of the scotch and set the glass down. My hands are still shaking — not from anger, or restraint, but from the terrifying truth of how much she matters to me now.
And how far I’m willing to go to make her truly mine.
The following morning, I get up early and fix breakfast for the both of us. Well, more like put together what we already have in the house. Mara looks at me suspiciously when I pull out her chair and set her plate before her.
“What is happening?”
“Nothing.” I say taking my own sit.
She snorts into her coffee, shaking her head as she tears into a croissant.
“You can’t fix breakfast, and call it nothing.”
I shrug, taking a sip of my coffee and watch her from across the table, letting it hit me again: I love her.
“You’re in a good mood,” she teases, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Who are you and what have you done with broody Zasha?”
I chuckle. “Don’t get used to it.”
“That is a shame.” She laughs.
A message notification pops up on my screen and I pause to read it.
“I’ve got to go, but I’ll be home early today.”
Her brows lift in surprise, then soften. “Okay,” she says, quiet but warm.
“I’ll be waiting.”
By noon, I arrive at Viktor’s estate and head straight to the living room, severely regretting every decision that’s brought me to this moment.
Although I wanted to speak to Scarlett, I wasn’t prepared to find Scarlett and Alina sitting on one of those obscenely expensive couches, delicate china teacups in hand, legs crossed like a pair of goddamn mafia wives from a magazine spread.
I clear my throat, and both heads swivel toward me, blinking in perfect sync.
“I need your help,” I say, jaw tight. “I need help with wooing my wife.”
Scarlett sets down her cup slowly. Alina’s eyebrows climb her forehead like she’s watching an animal do tricks.
There’s a beat of silence, then Alina exclaims, “Oh my God.” She says, “This is not happening.
I grunt, crossing my arms. “This isn’t a joke.”
They exchange a look that says they already know that I’m in love with Mara, and then burst into laughter. Not polite chuckles. Not discreet giggles. Full-blown, tears-forming, hand-over-mouth laughter.
I stand there like a statue, arms crossed, dignity in shreds, wondering why I didn’t just Google “How to Woo Your Wife” like a normal person.
“Okay, okay,” Scarlett says between gasps, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just—Zasha Petrov, the most lethal man in the city, asking for romance advice?”
“This isn’t a mission briefing,” Alina chimes in, grin wide, “so stop looking at us like you’re waiting for coordinates and a kill order.”
I scowl. “Are you done?”
“Not even close,” Scarlett murmurs, eyes dancing.
I sigh. “I want to court her. Properly. Like…” I gesture vaguely, “whatever normal people do.”
Scarlett blinks. “You mean… Mara?”
Alina practically vibrates. “Your wife? The one you’re already married to?”
“Yes,” I snap, glaring. “I want to court my wife.”
They both squeal like someone just handed them what they have been waiting for all their lives.
I consider walking out. But I stay. Because they know things I don’t. And if I’m going to do this, I need to learn.
“Okay,” Alina says, clapping her hands. “Rule number one: take her on dates.”
“Actual dates,” Scarlett adds. “Outside the house. Restaurants. Art exhibits. Somewhere she can dress up and feel seen.”
I nod, mentally cataloging the options.
“Rule two,” Alina says, “buy her things. Not expensive, over-the-top things — just… little things. Trinkets. Something that makes you say, ‘This reminded me of you.’”
“Flowers,” Scarlett says firmly. “Even if she says she doesn’t care, she’ll care. Just… keep it simple. Thoughtful.”
Alina leans in. “Rule three: small gestures. Bring her coffee before she asks. Leave her a note. Surprise her with her favorite pastry.”
“This sounds ridiculous,” I mutter.
Scarlett smiles gently. “It’ll feel that way at first. But that’s the point. You’re not used to softness, but she deserves it.”
I go quiet.
“And when the time’s right, Zasha… tell her. In plain words that you love her.”
My heart thuds, but I nod once. “Okay.”
Scarlett smiles, and Alina’s eyes gleam with mirth. And even though I want to crawl out of my own skin with how awkward this is, I tuck the discomfort away.
I’m willing to learn and adapt.
The sound of fists hitting padded gloves echoes through the training room, sharp and rhythmic.
Sweat beads down my spine. I should be focused, but my punches are a half-second off. My footwork’s lazy. I know it.
And so does Lev.
He circles me, brow raised. “You’re off.”
I grunt, resetting my stance. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re sloppy. Like your head’s somewhere else—wait.” He lowers his gloves. “It is somewhere else.”
I swipe at my forehead with the back of my arm, jaw tightening.
Viktor leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching like a hawk. “Something’s up Zash,” he says. “Spill.”
I say nothing.
Lev doesn’t back off. “Does this have anything to do with your little visit to the ladies earlier?”
I stiffen, then sigh in resignation. “I should have known you both will hear about it.”
Viktor’s expression doesn’t change. “Nothing stays secret under my roof, Zasha. You should know that.”
I sigh and drop my gloves. “I’m in love with my wife.”
Lev blinks once. Then twice. “You… what?”
Viktor just stares at me. “Say that again.”
I turn to the bench and start unstrapping the gloves. “You heard me. I’m not repeating it.”
Lev whistles low. “And here I thought you were just going soft. Turns out you're in love.”
Viktor’s still watching me like I’ve grown a second head. “What did the girls do to you?” he asks. “Did they put you up to this?”
I shake my head. “They did nothing to me. I went to them to ask for advice.”
Lev chokes on a laugh. “Zasha Petrov. Deadliest son of a bitch I know. Now seeking romance coaching from his boss’s wife and kid sister.”
I shoot him a look. “Mock me again and I’ll knock out your teeth.”
He holds up his hands. “Hey, no judgment. I’m just surprised. I didn’t even think you knew the word ‘courtship.’”
Viktor narrows his eyes. “So what does this mean? Candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach?”
“Exactly that,” I say dryly. “Might even throw in some poetry if she doesn’t run screaming first.”
Lev laughs again, still half in shock.
Viktor shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.
But I don’t care.
Let them laugh, after all, I’ve faced worse than a bruised ego.
If it means she smiles at me the way she dose — open and unguarded, like I’m something she wants, then I’m more than willing to learn every language her heart speaks. Even if it means humbling myself one painfully awkward gesture at a time. And tonight, I will be starting with flowers.
After I settle into my car, I search on the internet for a reputable flower shop.
Why the fuck are there too many damn flowers.
Lilies, roses, daisies, hydrangeas, orchids. And lilies alone apparently come in a dozen types — stargazer, calla, oriental, Peruvian. What the fuck is a Peruvian lily?
I close the browser tab before I punch the device and decide to go to the florist shop myself.
The place smells like sugar and earth. I hate the music playing — some tinny love song about first kisses and forever — and I hate how cheerful the girl behind the counter is when I walk in.
“Welcome!” she chirps. “Shopping for someone special?”
I grunt. “Something like that.”
She flutters around me like a hummingbird with too much caffeine, asking questions I don’t know how to answer.
“What’s the occasion?”
“What’s her favorite color?”
“Do you want bold or romantic or wild and free?”
I stare at the display. I don’t fucking know.
Every bouquet looks like a gamble. None of them look like her. Until my eyes land on a small bunch of wildflowers tucked off to the side.
Soft purples, and delicate whites. A few green sprigs that look like they belong in a fairytale meadow just like Mara.
“I’ll take that one,” I say. Then I hesitate.
My heart pounds harder than it should — harder than it ever has before an op.
“Actually—” I glance at the others. “Bag up all of them.”
The girl stares. “All?”
I nod. “Yes. Every single arrangement you have ready. And have them delivered to this address tomorrow morning.”
I hand her a card.
She takes it like it might bite her, blinking. “Sir… are you sure?”
“No.”
But I do it anyway.
When I get home, I stand outside our bedroom door like a goddamn idiot. The wildflower bouquet in my hand feels heavier than it should.
For fuck sakes, I’ve handled explosives with less hesitation. Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I grab the door handle and open the door.