Chapter 6- Zane
I woke to the shriek of the fire alarm. My heart kicked up before my eyes were even fully open.
For a split second, I thought I was home. That I’d fallen asleep with something in the oven again.
I sat up. My stomach rolled. My head spun.
I groaned. Blinking, I looked around.
I’m not home.
Suddenly, where I was and why all rushed back to me.
Janet. Mark.
The window.
The whiskey.
Me in my underwear.
Sam—the too-attractive man who had seen me in my underwear.
I had straddled this man.
His dick had been hard too. I sighed.
God. Why did I have to drink so much last night?
I pushed myself up, my throat dry. I waited for the heartache to take over—for the panic—but there was neither. Just an eerie sort of quiet inside me.
I felt numb. In a good way. The way you felt when you finished something you’d been tired of working on.
I stumbled off the couch, heartbeat thudding in my chest, and followed the smell of something burning straight into the kitchen.
Sam stood in front of the stove, waving a towel at the smoke. He was shirtless.
Every part of me went on pause.
This man was broad and built like he’d been sculpted from clay by a woman.
And the ink. There was so much ink.
From his shoulders down to the curve of his spine, his back was a canvas of black and grayscale tattoos.
Layers of story etched into skin. A snake coiled around a dagger.
The word discipline inked across the base of his neck.
A compass on one shoulder blade, a pair of dog tags woven into the pattern.
Cars and women drawn as demons and skulls.
Each one was intricate. All of it was drawn with the kind of detail that said whoever he was—or used to be—he lived hard, fast, and without apology.
Heat crawled between my thighs.
I found myself reaching for him. Ready to trace the ink, just to feel it under my fingers.
He didn’t turn around but he spoke. “You can touch them,” he said, with almost a hint of amusement in his voice. Like a man who knew exactly what his body did to people.
My hand hovered mid-air for a second too long.
“I wasn’t—” I started, but the lie fell flat.
I was.
And he knew it.
He looked over his shoulder at me then back at the stove, flipping whatever he was burning with the calm of someone unbothered by everything.
“You wanted to,” he said, smirking slightly.
I did want to but I lowered my hand. I was afraid if I touched them—or him—I might learn something I wasn’t ready to know about myself.
So I didn’t.
I just stood there, staring. Aching. Wanting.
It took me a minute to find my words, something witty to prove I wasn’t intimidated. “You should put a warning label on your back, in the middle of all that.”
He chuckled—not smugly, just amused like.
He looked over his shoulder again. “Good morning. Sorry I woke you. Didn’t expect the damn fire alarm to be that sensitive.”
I had forgotten about the fire alarm. Him mentioning it brought the sound back.
I moved past him, turned off the burner, and grabbed the spoon from his hand.
“I thought your parents owned a restaurant,” I teased, smirking. Trying to turn lust into laughter. I was so wet between my thighs it was shameful.
He grunted, tossing the towel he’d been fanning the smoke with onto the counter. “Doesn’t mean I know how to cook.”
I giggled. “I can, call me Chef and you can be the busboy,” I said, nudging him with my hip. “Clean those pans. I’ll make us something edible after I use the bathroom.”
He nodded and stepped aside.
“There’s a towel and a toothbrush laid out in the bathroom,” he said. “Shower’s yours.”
“Thanks,” I said softly.
He didn’t look at me, just nodded again and turned toward the sink.
I left him in the kitchen. I stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary after I finished showering, my hands gripping the edge of the sink. My skin still felt warm from the water. My head was clearer.
I still wasn’t hurting about what I’d found out. Not like I thought I would.
I was angry but not hurt.
Maybe I expected it. Maybe I didn’t care.
I was more embarrassed about how I’d unraveled the night before in front of Sam than anything else.
The crying.
The rambling.
The stripping.
God.
I pressed my forehead to the mirror.
I exhaled. For the first time in a long time, I could hear my own thoughts without Mark’s wants, needs, or judgment crashing into them. I pushed away from the sink. Same had laid a big t-shirt out for me. When I put it on it hugged my frame but dropped to me knee’s.
When I came out of the bathroom, Sam was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.
His eyes lifted when he heard me, lingering a little longer than they should have—but he didn’t say anything.
I moved around him like it was mine. Pulled ingredients from the fridge. Cracked eggs. Sliced vegetables. My body knew what to do, even if my brain was still frazzled from the night before.
He watched me cook. Not just casually. He laid down his phone and watched me like I was TV.
It was unnerving.
The feeling it caused was visceral. Like I was slowly being pulled apart from the inside and handed back to myself in pieces. But I was in my element. I could function without crawling out of my own skin.
When I finished, I made him a plate and set it in front of him without a word.
I didn’t expect a thank you, Mark never gave me one. I didn’t even look at him. I just turned to walk away, trying to hold on to the calm I’d found while cooking now that I wasn’t.
Before I could, he reached out and grabbed my hand, He turned it over like he was getting ready to read it, then he brought it to his mouth, and placed a kiss to my palm. His lips were so soft.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said.
My whole body flushed. It was sudden—my chest, my neck, even behind my knees. A wave of heat rolled through me, slow and low and thick, starting from that single point of contact and spreading underneath my flesh like melted honey.
Maybe to him it was just a kiss on the palm.
But to me, it felt like something sacred.
And I didn’t know what to do with that so I held it quietly. I nodded. Tried to keep my face schooled as I pulled my hand back and sat across from him—like nothing had happened.
I read once that a woman can bloom under the right kind of attention.
Not gifts or flowers or loud declarations. Just… being noticed. Genuinely. Softly. Like someone sees her and doesn’t look away.
And maybe that’s what this was.
He took a bite, then looked up at me.
“What are you gonna do about your husband?” He asked bluntly.
I swallowed. Hard. “Nothing. Not right now,” I said, picking at my food.
“He’s in Miami for a week. Which I now know he isn’t—or wasn’t—but he probably won’t come back to our home for a week.
I have time to think. I don’t know what to do, really, Sam.
I don’t have money. I don’t have a job. I just—I gotta think. ”
He nodded slowly.
“Can I ask you something? A favor. And if the answer is no, I’ll drop it. I mean that.”
“Okay.”
“My wife doesn’t know exactly how much money I have,” he said, voice low, careful.
“She just likes to spend it. I own this house, half my parents’ restaurant, and a few more properties.
I don’t want her getting half of what she never helped build.
If I’m going to protect any of it... I need documentation.
Proof of the affair. Something I can use.
Multiple occasions. Something she can’t deny. ”
I sat back, thinking.
He looked at me dead-on. No pressure. No sweet-talking.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he added. “And don’t say ‘okay’ unless you mean it. I can find another way if it'll hurt you. Speak up for yourself.”
The way he said it made my chest tighten.
I wasn’t used to being heard—or people caring about how I felt or what I thought. It was heady. I felt physically woozy.
I looked at him and smiled.
“I’m not staying with Mark,” I said quietly. “And I don’t feel bad about helping you. So yeah... okay.”
He nodded, then reached into his pocket and slid something across the table.
A key.
“You need a break? Time away?” He looked at me, his face serious.
“You come here.”