13. Zara
ZARA
He always looks in control, but as I stare at his sleeping form, I notice the cracks. A line digs between his brows, his jaw tight enough for his molars to grind together, as if he’s tormented. The sight steals the breath from my lungs, knotting me up.
I caress his jaw, driven by an incessant urge to comfort him. He releases the pressure, and then I move to his forehead, brushing the line away.
“Mi sol,” he whispers, my name caught between agony and relief, squeezing an invisible fist around my heart.
Last night is now etched into my memory. It’s like he rewrites my brain to focus solely on him. My body to submit to him. My heart to crave him.
This sudden change in my life disconcerts me, and I roll out of bed, tiptoeing into the bathroom.
I stare at my reflection for long minutes, not recognizing the woman in front of me.
I’ve stitched myself into this person with pieces and bits that were unfamiliar, just to create an identity from scratch, but I can’t hide the result from myself.
Internally, I resemble Frankenstein’s monster more than a human, a failed attempt at playing God.
Turning on the faucet, I gather cold water in my hands and splash it over my face, then brush my teeth, spitting the toothpaste as if it’s the acid gathering on my tongue. The man I supposedly loved hard enough to preserve his ghost has morphed into Vian, as if they’re not different men but one.
He will take and take some more. Last night showed me that my fight dies the moment he touches me—my will is a feather he blows away with no effort.
After I apply a bit of makeup, I walk into the closet and dress in a pencil skirt and crisp shirt. Rolling my sleeves below my elbows, I gather my heels, hoping my business look will help me keep things uncomplicated between us. Wishful thinking.
His face is back to displaying raw agony. He wants my all, yet he clings to his past just as much, causing a sigh to heave from my chest.
Downstairs, I greet my staff on the way to the kitchen. My chef smiles as she prepares breakfast, a cup of coffee already waiting for me on the counter.
She keeps glancing at me, and it makes me feel exposed. “What?” I say, my voice clipped.
“Your husband slept here. That’s a first. If you don’t mind me saying—”
“I do mind.”
Undeterred, she goes on. “It suits you. You look more relaxed.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Last night flashes through my mind, and I stayed there like a spellbound woman, wanting to erase the space between us. He didn’t snap like the first time. No, he wants me to beg. That will never happen. He caved once. He will do it again.
That thought emboldens me like nothing else. He won’t be able to ignore his own nature much longer—every fiber of his body is made to take. Meanwhile, I rejoice in his growing desperation and the confidence it gives me.
I can’t believe the asshole managed to shut off my brain so completely that I floated in a bubble of sweet nothingness.
I clench my thighs and shift from foot to foot, trying to control my wantonness. Feeling watched, I sip my coffee, aiming for nonchalance, but my thoughts circle back to him as if he is my sole destination.
He wants me to sleep at his place for more than one night, so he must pass a test. That was our deal. But I am only postponing the inevitable.
Determination fuels me, reminding me who I am—a strong, independent, confident woman. Someone who survived blankness. Who lives with demons but doesn’t relent to them.
Outside, the morning sun greets me, infusing life into a place destined to snub it.
I quickly find the commander of my team.
“Ma’am,” he says, bowing his head slightly my way.
“My husband would like a challenge.”
“How far should we go?” he asks, caution lacing his voice.
“He needs a bit of humility, and after last time”—I pin him with a hard stare, leaving the unspoken message to linger. His being able to infiltrate my compound was embarrassing—“we will show him why we’re the best in the industry, won’t we?”
He tips his chin in acknowledgment, my belly tightening as I walk away. Ignoring that pesky weakness, I come to an abrupt halt and say over my shoulder, “I expect you to treat him like he’s the enemy.”
Back inside, I enter the dining room and find him staring out the window. Just like all the other times, his back turned to me is something I can’t bear. “You’re awake.”
He spins to me, wearing a relaxed pose with his hands in his pockets. “I see you’ve made plans for me.”
“Did you change your mind, husband?” I ask with a playful tilt as I sashay to him, emboldened by the way he takes me in as if I captivate him.
“Pack your bag. We’ll fly afterward. I have a family meeting.”
Family meetings in the Mafia mean he must take care of something. Maybe we should reschedule the test. He will be in terrible shape afterward. I am about to propose that when he smirks, jerking his chin at me. “How’s the ass?”
The insensitive asshole. It’s one thing when it happens under the cloak of night, in the privacy of our bedroom, when I can pretend it didn’t happen and that I am not betraying everything I stood for until I met him, but him bringing it into daylight breaks a silent code.
Time for my men to teach him some humility.
As I drifted to sleep, he applied some soothing gel. It still astounds me that I let him take care of me afterward and that a part of me softened for it. I am not ready to acknowledge any of that.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say haughtily when I reach him. Even in heels, I don’t reach his chin, and that strangely makes me feel all kinds of things I am also not ready to admit.
He backs me into the window, caging me between two hard surfaces as if I need proof that I can’t escape. The air grows heady with delicious tension and all-encompassing desire.
He grips my chin, smirking while his other hand travels down my back and settles on my ass. “The ten slaps caused by your bratty behavior.”
A delicious shiver travels from my toes to my scalp, making me suck in a shallow breath. A wicked promise is etched in those blue eyes as they peer into my soul and claim it as his.
If one of my men injures him fatally, I won’t mourn him. I stare him down, but he keeps my gaze, unperturbed by the chaos he wreaks inside me.
His stubbornness matches mine, and after some time, I huff, my stomach growling. Sustenance is better than engaging in a childish staring contest with my husband.
If only I could change time. I would have thought twice before proposing marriage, but the deal happened, and I can’t change the outcome.
At the table, I pick at my boiled egg while he plates eggs, bacon, and vegetables from the breakfast spread.
I prefer silence because I can think undisturbed, but his presence is so loud it overpowers every coherent thought.
He creates a small bowl of strawberries and blueberries—my favorites—in a smiley face.
The gesture is sweet, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Is that an apology?”
His brows furrow in a contrite expression. “For what?”
“Really?”
“Come here,” he says, his husky voice causing a jolt straight between my thighs.
God, give me strength. This devil is threatening my composure.
I arch a brow. “You forgot something.”
“Come here, please,” he says in a no-nonsense voice dripping with authority.
Is it better? No.
Do I follow his request? Yes.
I am a walking contradiction.
This man has the uncanny ability to mess me up.
I know what he wants before he says it, but continuing to question why would only drive me insane. So I drop into his lap, the fight instantly leaving me when he snakes an arm around me, disarming me with blue eyes that shine so brightly they thrust a bolt of light into my chest.
“This is demeaning,” I whisper.
“Sitting in your husband’s lap?” he asks, sounding contrite.
That’s new, giving me hope that maybe, with time, we can cohabitate in peace. But do I even want that when I love the chaos, the fiery passion that brands every moment? Maybe we could compromise, tapping into a world where they are not mutually exclusive.
“You expecting me to follow your orders.”
“Is that how you see it?”
I nod, and he sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s been so long, mi sol. Life has made me harder. I desperately want you, need you close to function. I’m sorry for failing to show you that.”
His message conveys something more. I can’t figure it out, but the raw sincerity behind his words is unmistakable.
I don’t remember the woman who fell in love for the first time, leaving me uncertain whether my caution is inherited or learned.
“The please helps,” I say to bring back some levity.
He chuckles and buries his face in my neck, inhaling me until my breathing turns labored.
“Then I’ll beg, baby, for the rest of my life if you desire. I live to take care of you. You’re not alone anymore. You have me and always will.” He looks at me, expecting me to respond in kind.
I wish I were that open, that honest, but I am too scared to analyze my feelings for him. I am not ready yet, and I don’t know when—or if—I ever will be.
He nods more to himself and then lifts the fork to my lips, feeding me.
Like in a trance, I open my mouth, remaining plastered in his lap, surrounded by his woodsy scent and this overwhelming feeling of belonging.
Of home. Like I’ve experienced this exact moment before, even if I have no recollection of it.
It’s strangely intimate and undoubtedly familiar.
I savor every moment, but there’s this deep-rooted fear chipping away at the bliss, revealing it as nothing but a mirage.
After breakfast, he lifts me up, and as I glide down his torso, I feel his arousal, a current electrifying me. I bite down a moan, knowing how exquisite he feels against me. I should get a medal for restraint for not jumping him right then and there.
“Let’s go to torture. Nothing new with you,” he says, but the easygoing expression seems forced, from his tight smile to the way he waves his own reply away.