30. Zara
ZARA
Our eyes lock, and I feel deep in my heart that he won’t let me go.
He can’t. He’s fooling himself into believing he can, just as I fool myself into believing I could ever escape him.
Not only because of his mad love, or this sick love there’s no cure for, but also because of the baby growing inside me. Our baby.
I palm my belly, caressing it softly, and my eyes well up. I can’t get rid of this baby any more than I can get rid of its daddy.
That doesn’t mean we’ll be a happy nuclear family. Just on paper. He’ll remain part of its life; couples all over the world co-parent. We’ll find a way too, and I hope every time he sees his child, he remembers he killed my father.
Staring straight ahead, I wish for the warm water to soothe my bruised chest and battered heart. I was too wrapped up in him to realize the contraceptive shot didn’t work—wrapped in a bubble of delusion, in the spell he spun around me in endless layers.
I know exactly when it happened. Even after I found out the truth, I still let him inside me, only for him to leave something behind––a permanent souvenir.
I close my eyes, tiredness pulling at my lids. The doctor told me what to expect during pregnancy. Fatigue is just one of the many effects. I need to rest, since I am growing a tiny being inside me.
I feel his hands on my scalp, massaging me as he washes my hair. I mumble a no, but it lacks strength, and like a leech, he feeds on that weakness, ignoring my plea.
I am barely holding myself together, but his hands are magic, and I relax under my captor’s touch—my ruthless tormentor, my greatest enemy. My husband.
He’s the one who should be in bed, recovering. Instead, he washes me with a gentleness that overwhelms me, making me an emotional mess.
Helping me up, he wraps a towel around my body and gathers me in his arms.
“Your stitches.”
“Fuck my stitches.”
“I won’t redo them again,” I bite, but the sound carries no real intent.
He kisses my forehead in response.
“I won’t fall for your charms again.”
A noncommittal sound ripples in his chest. “Want to bet on that?”
I sigh. “I’m wasting my energy on you.”
The asshole chuckles, and I sink into him, needing his warmth to survive the cold that has befallen my being. Nothing there grows but our baby––my winter baby.
He places me in bed and tucks me in, getting under the covers with me. The sun sets, the sky embracing the night just as darkness has swallowed our love and every dream of togetherness.
“Foolish man. Staying alert constantly proves impossible.”
“Be my warrior woman. Don’t deprive me of seeing your beautiful face one last time. If you kill me, at least let me look into your eyes where I see my entire life, my future.”
“You’re a cunning, manipulative asshole.” I shut my eyes, hoping at least in my dreams to get a break from him.
Thirteen more days. I will survive him, and then we’re going home, baby. I’ll tell your daddy about you once you’re born. It’s not like he’s carrying you. I might have made you with his help, but compared to everything else, his involvement is negligible.
Hot. I feel hot, like a furnace is blasting angry flames against my side, and I sit up in bed, drenched in sweat.
Vian has a protective hand over my belly, and he emanates so much heat it feels unnatural. I look over my shoulder and find his brows furrowed, droplets of sweat covering his forehead.
Slowly turning, I touch his forehead and it’s searing, just like the rest of him. Panic hits me, and I tap his face, urging him to wake up.
His eyes flutter open, looking unfocused, but he smiles at me once he sees me. “There you are, mi sol.”
He’s burning like one, and that’s not good. “You have a fever.”
“You make me feverish,” he says through a full-body shiver.
This is not good. “I have to call the doctor. He needs to come and see you.”
“My smart woman… always trying to escape me,” he says in a groggy voice.
Escape wasn’t even on my mind.
“Vian, please.”
His lids flutter closed, but I slap his cheek, and he opens those mesmerizing blue eyes that appear glassy now. “Let me die then.”
I nudge him onto his back, noticing his wound pulsing and not ruling out an infection. “Did you take any medicine?”
“No.”
“Ugh, you stubborn idiot. The medications aren’t just for pain. The doctor prescribed you antibiotics too.”
Sheer frustration kicks me into action. I roll out of bed and switch on the light, a golden hue bathing the room. Inside the bathroom, I pick up a bottle of pills the doctor prescribed and the medical kit, then return to his side.
I place them on his nightstand and rush to the kitchen for a glass of water. Then I help him sit straighter, waiting for him to swallow the medicine while I move to sew him again.
“I swear to God, if you leave this bed in the next few days, I’m going to cuff you to it.”
He licks his lips. “I love the idea.”
“It’s the fever talking because it wouldn’t be for pleasure.”
“Cruel woman,” he groans.
“I just don’t like you undoing my work.”
“Just admit it, Zara. There’s a reason for that, baby. It’s called love.”
“Don’t piss off the only person who can keep you alive,” I snap, annoyance and concern shooting through my veins.
He falls back asleep, but it’s not like I can sleep not knowing if his fever will rise some more. Until the medicine works, I am left in a merciless limbo.
Every half hour, I take his temperature, and even though it hasn’t risen, it goes down far too slowly. I lower my face to his just to hear him breathing. Even with proof that he’s alive, I can’t relax.
All night, I rotate between wetting two cloths, placing them on his forehead and feet, and giving him water to hydrate.
He will not die from a bloody infection, but of old age regretting losing me while I entertain a lover on the side.
Sure. In what life? The idea alone sends bile straight to my throat, and I hurry to the toilet and throw up. Morning sickness is no joke.
After I puke my soul out, I look up and spot him in the mirror, standing in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry thick in his voice.
“Your presence makes me nauseous,” I say, faking irritation not to give him ideas about my state. “That’s wrong. And you should be in bed.”
Does he listen? No, because he has been crafted to drive me wild. Instead, he palms my forehead, but my body temperature is normal. “It’s not a fever.”
“But you have one.” I push him out, knowing the only way he will stay in bed is if I accompany him. I am wasting so many good opportunities to end him.
“Food poisoning?” he asks, staring at me.
“I didn’t sleep all night watching your ass.”
The smile he regales me with is almost blinding. “You did. I wonder why?”
“Stop wondering so much,” I mumble and give him another pill.
“You never get sick in the summer.”
In this rhythm, he’s going to find out, and I can’t allow that.
“It’s nothing, Vian. Stop it.” I inhale a deep breath. “Now rest.”
“Whatever you say, wife.”
I take his temperature and luckily, it’s down, but it’s still higher than normal.
I check his injury next. No fresh blood coats it, and I apply a new bandage.
I am too restless to sit, and prolonged nearness to him would only make it harder to stay strong.
Needing to do something, I say, “I’m going to make soup.”
“We have some in the fridge.”
“I’ll make another one. And if you dare to get out of bed, I will throw the broth on you and boil you instead.”
He chuckles and makes himself comfortable on the bed to show that he can behave.
Sure. And the Earth is flat.
In the kitchen, I busy myself with chopping the vegetables and the chicken, imagining it’s my love I hack to pieces.
I wait for the water to boil, then move onto the terrace. Resting my elbows on the railing, I look down. From this height, the city resembles an ant farm.
The only way is down. I am not suicidal, though.
I glance at my watch, seeing it’s been an hour, and knowing him, he’s getting fidgety. Being constantly mad at him exhausts me.
Preparing a bowl, I bring him one first. Taking care of my husband. Such a good wife. If he hadn’t discarded the bullets, I would have unloaded it––into me.
His head lolls to the side, a strand of his thick brown hair falling onto his brow, giving him an irresistible appeal, my fingers itching to touch him. Sunlight streams through the window, showcasing all his magnificence.
Each breath causes his chest to fall and rise, rippling across the valley of sculpted muscles carving his torso.
Stop ogling him. He’s ugly on the inside. I wish I could believe that.
I sit next to him, palming his chest, and his heart thumps under my touch as if greeting me.
He’s going to wear me down by doing nothing. I can’t have that. I refuse to travel this vicious road with him again, so I remind myself of his two unforgivable crimes: killing my beloved father and wiping my memories.
Instantly, my walls go up, and I poke his uninjured side to wake up. “Eat.”
“You?” he tries, his voice playful. “Your juices would quickly restore my health.”
I stare him down with an annoyed look, shoving the bowl in his hand.
He takes a spoonful, and a sound of satisfaction vibrates in his throat. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
“I did it because I must. In case you forgot, you locked me in here with you, you madman.”
Something strikes his features, something akin to disappointment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared.
“How could I forget?” he grumbles and takes another spoonful. “Did you eat?”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
He thrusts the bowl my way. “Eat. You need it more.”
For a second, I think he knows I am pregnant. It’s absurd, so I brush the thought away.
“I won’t eat either, then.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He’s about to place the bowl on the nightstand when I sigh, “You’re behaving like a child.”
“Ditto.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose to gather my composure. He threatens my patience to the point calmness eludes me. Don’t lose it. That’s his thing to provoke me until I snap, lose my damn mind and somehow land on his cock, wrapped up in him. At least he can’t get me pregnant again.
I laugh at my silly joke, and we share the bowl of soup, then I bring a second one we pass between us until we finish that too and I place the empty bowl on his nightstand.
He looks around, tapping a finger on his chest. “I’m bored.”
Of course, he is. He’s an active person.
“I’ve already fed you. Did you expect dinner and a show?”
His eyes spark at the prospect, causing mine to roll. “It takes everything in me to keep you alive. Don’t strain that small grace I still have.”
When he gives me puppy dog eyes, it’s so damn cute it makes me give in. “Cards?”
He nods, and I go to his game room to retrieve a deck of cards. After I return, I shuffle them, giving five each.
We play Macau, my favorite game, and with no false modesty, I have been unbeaten since childhood.
At the fond memory, a smile grazes my lips until I remember I played it with my father. He taught me this game, and I toss a card down, no longer caring about winning or losing. “My father is rolling in his grave because I’m keeping his murderer alive.”
“If he weren’t, I would gladly kill him again.”
My jaw drops. I don’t know what is worse: that I might forgive him if he showed some remorse, or his violent reaction, hatred coating every feature. It shocks me to the bone, stunning me into silence.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, muscles coiling in a tense posture. “Don’t make me apologize for doing that. I can’t. I won’t.”
I arch an incredulous brow, expelling a heavy breath. “But you expect me to forgive you?”
I have two cards left, and he is down to three.
“It’s two different circumstances. Believe me.”
“Believe you?”
“It takes every-fucking-thing in me not to open my mouth and slander your precious daddy who could do no wrong. But I can’t,” he grits out.
“And why is that? Because you killed him.”
“And I’d do it again.”
“Fuck you.”
“You already did.” He snaps and throws his cards. I glance at them and reveal mine as well. I would have won, but that’s irrelevant. Ugh.
“I need some time on my own. Can you at least give me that?” I ask, sounding on edge. I need to calm myself down.
I am almost at the door when he says to my back, stopping me in my tracks. “You know what hurts the most? What will always destroy me again and fucking again. That you don’t ask me why the fuck I did it?”
“I don’t need to hear the reason to know nothing he did could have ever been bad enough to kill him. The man who raised me. The man who loved me. The man who trusted you, let you into his house. Your mistake was letting me witness it. You could have simply packaged it differently.”
“And that’s my only regret.”
That’s his regret. The asshole. No, I can’t forgive him. I won’t.
I square my shoulders and spin around just to let him witness my determination not to forgive him.
He lets out a deprecating laugh. “You were supposed to stay by my side. Trust me. But it was all pretty lies.”
If the asshole weren’t already injured and my only chance to get out of here, I would have ended him right this instant.
“And the fucking saddest thing is, it doesn’t matter. I still love you like the biggest idiot this world has ever known.”
“No one needs a love like yours. Me the least,” I say, the lie twisting my heart.
How many times can your damn heart break?
He opens his mouth, surely to say something equally hurtful, but he clamps it shut.
He can’t, and now I understand why his uncle said that he loves me too much.