10. Zara
ZARA
If I thought his presence made me lose my mind, I had no idea what being with him would do to me. Insanity. That’s what it is.
A tremor passes through me just remembering the intensity of last night. From the slow pull of desire to him washing me afterward with utter gentleness, it felt like a fever dream.
The reminder alone heats my skin. Insatiable—that’s what I am for this man. Taking it slow is a challenge I am destined to lose, especially since once we were in bed, my last coherent thought was wanting more of him. And he aims to please, this conundrum of a husband of mine.
I open my eyes to find him wrapped around me, watching me with so much warmth it melts my insides. Then his eyes clear and his jaw sets into a harsh line, hardness slipping back onto his face. Surely, he expects me to bolt. But I just had the best sleep in ages, and I feel invigorated.
I enjoy waking up next to him. I enjoy even more the comfort he gives me, the kind I didn’t think I would need, but he has proven me wrong from the beginning.
Sunlight streams through the window, announcing another warm summer day. I stretch lazily, and the sheet slips lower. He groans low in his throat, the sound pulling a smile from my mouth.
“Morning,” I chirp, and his features ease as he lowers his face to kiss me.
He pulls me closer for one lingering moment before easing away, and I feel the instant loss.
I don’t recognize myself anymore, the woman he has made his.
“Morning, mi sol. Did you sleep well?” A smirk stretches the corners of his mouth. In the morning light, he appears even more handsome, a strand of hair falling over his brow.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, sounding infatuated as I brush the strand back and caress the side of his head, exploring my husband leisurely. His woodsy scent and warm body wrap around me in a cocoon I don’t want to leave.
My belly growls, interrupting the intimate moment. Apparently, he can’t fulfill every need.
“Let’s get my woman fed.”
His blatant possessiveness is rather hot.
Or maybe he has some magic powers. Who knows?
I live in my blissful bubble. My marriage has brought me so much more than I could have envisioned.
I am less focused on the past, less agonized over the gaps, and more interested in living in the present. With him.
I slip out of bed and enter his walk-in closet, choosing one of his shirts. Rolling the sleeves up to my forearms, I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe. He gives me an approving look, his eyes shining and deep in thought. “I love you in my clothes.”
This is not the first time I catch that nostalgic expression on his face. It makes me jealous of the one he loved. While our chemistry is undeniable and our desire unstoppable, other inhabitants occupy our hearts. I believed my heart was safe, yet with each passing day, that certainty wanes.
I share him with a dead love, just like he does me.
“Tell me about her,” I blurt out, hating my curiosity.
I know it’s absurd, but I long to be his first and last love. The thought catches me unprepared. I don’t understand this visceral reaction, but a potent rush of emotion subdues me.
“Sure you want to hear it?” he asks, caution clear in his voice.
No, I don’t, but I must. Either to steel the walls around my heart or learn to accept his past. I offer a small nod, and his eyes peer into mine. “She was everything I ever wanted and nothing I could overcome. Loving her has been my destiny.”
His words might as well be a lance spearing straight through my chest, pinning my heart down and leaving a bloody mess. The hurt, just like jealousy, is instant, making me press a palm to my chest as if I can somehow ease the fragile organ.
With my other hand, I urge him to continue, even though it’s clear from his tight posture and clenched jaw that he doesn’t want to reveal more. But I need to hear about this woman who came before me.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We knew what we were getting into. Our hearts are taboo, but I want to know the man I married better.” Even though the thought of her makes me nauseous. His eyes narrow on me, the hurt clear.
In response, I sigh, feeling him as if he is part of me. What kind of spell did he put on me? This is witchcraft at its finest.
“It was love at first sight.”
I roll my eyes, hating that and not understanding the concept.
A grin stretches across his face. “You don’t believe in it?”
I shake my head. “Instant attraction, possibly, but love? Nah.”
There’s a playful gleam in his eyes, as if he finds me amusing. “I assure you, it exists. I set eyes on her and knew she was it.”
Who the fuck was this woman? I hate her, and then I feel bad for thinking ill of the dead.
“She came right up to me, tilted her head, and said, ‘Do you feel this too?’”
“What did you say?” I whisper, as if afraid I might conjure her ghost and she could steal him from me. He is mine now. Back off.
I am losing it. Right here and now.
At least he remembers his love story. All I have are indistinct images with his face on them now. Cruel. Twisted. Disheartening.
“I said, ‘I do. Want to be crazy with me?’”
I don’t need him to answer. It’s written on his face—entranced, trapped in better times with his dream woman, living his best life. Then what the fuck am I? A consolation prize. A poor replacement.
I clear my throat to swallow the lump stuck there. “You said I resemble her.”
“Physically.”
“What does that even mean?” I mumble.
He pushes himself off the doorframe, his posture turning tense. “She was different. And the talk is over.”
I raise my hands in the air, getting more frustrated by the second. “Why? I’m enjoying it quite a bit.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I thread my fingers through my hair, pretending to style it, but really, it’s to keep busy and hide my frayed emotions behind the strands.
“I’m going to come over there to hug and kiss you.”
I glare at him. He really has a problem with questions, and his intent stare warns me not to test him right now.
He cuts the distance between us, wrapping his arms around me, and my anger dissipates. “I have no right to feel like this, Vian…” To wish that woman were me.
“God, Zara, mi sol... There’s no reason to ever be jealous.”
He spins me around and cups my face, his eyes softening, locking onto mine as if to say it’s me. He’s all mine. I own him—his entire attention and his whole heart.
“It’s not as straightforward as you thought it would be, huh?”
“No, it’s worse,” I sigh, emotionally all over the place. “I was just jealous of your dead girlfriend.”
“Fiancée.”
“Are you freaking kidding me right now?”
“Fuck, you’re my wife now. I love your fire. Your passion drives me wild.”
“Glad I amuse you,” I snicker, intent on shoving him off, only for my palms to settle on his chest.
“Your bratty attitude.” He kisses me. “Your possessiveness.” He silences my protest with another kiss. “You wanting to take it slow when we both want to move at light speed.”
“Yeah, right toward the wreckage.”
He chuckles and kisses me again. “You know what I did differently this time?”
That piques my interest, and I wait with bated breath.
“I made you my wife. You can’t leave me.”
“Did she?” I whisper, something unpleasant striking my rib cage and making it hard to breathe.
He must have kissed me silly. She died, but it’s not as if it was by choice.
Eyes locked, he seems to relive a painful memory, pure horror staring back at me. “She did, right before she told me she hated me.”
My brows knit together, and suddenly I’m mad for him. It’s clear he loved her deeply, and even clearer that he will never stop loving her despite the hurt she caused him. “What? How?”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “She believed her father. Not me. And I couldn’t make it right.”
So many questions run through my head, and while I try to sort my thoughts into one coherent sentence, he adds, “Let’s go make breakfast.”
It’s in his tone, dripping with resolution, that I know the talk is over.
A part of me rejoices that the perfect woman wasn’t so perfect after all. She caused him a pain I doubt he will ever overcome. But now I am in his life, I have his loyalty, and someday I will bear his child. She will be forgotten.
Will you give up on your fiancé? The question appears out of nowhere, slapping my ignorance.
The tug on my heartstrings gives me the answer. No. So I guess I must accept that he can’t either.
“The staff always has Sundays off. I hope that’s not a problem,” he says as he takes various things from the fridge and places them on the marble island.
In just his boxer briefs, his back ripples with muscle, scattering my focus—sharp angles and deadly force packed into an elegant predator. He looks so mouthwatering it’s a wonder I don’t drool over him.
“Hmm? What?” I say, the question signaling the daze I am in.
He looks at me over his shoulder, smirking and flexing his muscles. Such a showoff.
Something else catches my attention. On his nape is a tattoo—the only thing painted on his body.
Some sign I can’t make out, but it tugs at my strings.
In a trance, I approach him, trying to figure it out.
It’s three lines resembling a lightning strike, but on closer inspection, I can distinguish two letters: an inclined Z and a V united.
It’s just a damn coincidence. I am seeing things, a clear sign I am losing it. It’s a distorted lightning strike, obviously.
My hand trembles as I lift it to touch his tattoo, and he stiffens. Something zaps me, a flash transporting me to a specific moment in time.
We planned matching tattoos. On our napes. I know it, but I have none on my body.
I stumble back and grip my head, breathing harshly.
He spins around, looking ashen. “Zara, what’s the matter?” He palms my shoulders, shaking me lightly. “Breathe with me. Just breathe with me. I’m right here.”
In all the years since I lost my memory, I haven’t had such a clear picture. It should be a moment to rejoice, but helplessness drags me into the hell of agony.