36. Zara #2
“Are you okay with me going to the therapist?” I ask, unsure if it’s the right decision, especially now. We must deal with a traitor and carve out my path as Underboss. I am pregnant, and he’s still recovering. It feels like the wrong time.
He rolls me to the side, his body oozing so much warmth that it blankets me in a homelike feeling.
“I’ll never stop you from pursuing anything you wish. Deep down, I will always fear something happening and that I will lose you. The thought destroys me, but that’s my issue to overcome, not yours.”
The thing is, we don’t know the mysteries of my brain—whether that was an isolated incident or a precursor to something worse. That’s another reason I want to talk to the therapist: to be proactive and prepare ourselves.
I’ve started writing a diary just in case—letters that will go to him if something irreparable befalls me.
I brush my nose against his and he closes his eyes as if to savor every second. “If it’s up to me, you will never face a day without me.”
“I would join you in the next life regardless,” he rasps.
I gulp, emotions overcoming me. “Vian…”
“You’re my strength, Zara. Don’t ask me the impossible, mi sol.”
That’s his one impossible quest, surviving in a world where I am not.
“As long as you breathe, I will fight for you. If it takes me a hundred times to make you fall back in love with me, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. The past has already shown you seek me out, regardless.”
I giggle, now understanding the reason behind my confusion and my intrigue with him. He was mine. I was his. Our love pulsed between us, a wire connecting our souls through time and eternity.
The elevator pings open, announcing someone’s arrival.
“I hope you’re decent,” his cousin says playfully.
He grumbles, “Why can’t she announce herself?”
I mouth, “Be nice.”
He frowns, which makes him look adorable. “I am fucking nice.”
I pin him with a stare, and he lifts me up before gently placing me down. He gives me a once-over that has heat spreading through my insides, burning me up with desire. “See you later, wife.”
“If you think a few hours will help you get in my pants, you’re mistaken,” I breathe out, hoping for strength.
“We’ll see.” He smirks, eliciting a delicious throb between my thighs.
Noemi finds us in the living room and wraps her arms around us in a tight squeeze.
We’re about to leave when Rafe and Tristan arrive next.
“I’ll try to go easy on your ass tonight,” Tristan says, jerking his chin at my husband.
My eyes widen in sheer incredulity. His wife must exert a positive influence on him because this show of empathy is novel.
He looks my way and dips his head, always the perfect gentleman. “Zara.”
“He was just stabbed. I’m pocketing the win,” Rafe says good-naturedly, looking at my husband and Tristan with almost pity, as if he knows their changes are because of their women.
“Your time will come,” I say with utter confidence.
“I’m perfectly fine on my own. These two can’t breathe without their wives.” He shudders, his face contorting in disgust.
“My wife is the best thing that has happened to me,” Tristan says matter-of-factly.
“I would be nothing without mine,” says Vian, a secret understanding passing between them.
His eyes find mine, and I place my hand on my chest, mouthing, I love you.
“Whipped idiots. Let’s play. I’m in the mood to show you what happens when your focus is somewhere else.”
I don’t think Vian and Tristan care about the game.
I am just grateful my husband has them. Friends are important, especially in our world where they could make the difference between life and death.
Arms looped together, his cousin and I go to a chic rooftop bar, relaxing as various men stand guard.
Enjoying my time with her, the pressure eases inside me, and I release a deep breath of relief.
“It’s been hard,” she sighs.
She has been there, so she witnessed my despair.
“You saved his life, Zara.”
I shake my head. “No, he did all the saving.”
I am sure my instinct to return as quickly as I did was one of self-preservation.
Tonight is about having fun, not delving into sadness, so I quickly change the topic. “How is the sculpture going?”
She huffs, taking a big gulp of alcohol. “I cut the dick off. He needs to be humbled.”
I burst into laughter and wipe at my eyes inconspicuously.
The smile fades from her face. “Lew was an entertaining distraction.”
I find her hand and give it a little squeeze. “Don’t let your mental health struggles define you.”
She told me I knew about her condition, but she reminded me of it.
I think both of us fearing for our mental well-being has made us even closer.
“Why would he put up with me?”
I let out a sound of incredulity. “Because you’re a badass, talented, loving, passionate woman. He would be a fool not to want you.”
She looks into space, and I insist, “Do you like him?”
The tip of her nose crinkles, but there’s a spark in her eyes. “I can’t stand that pompous ass who thinks he knows everything better.”
Yeah, sure, she doesn’t like him at all.
I know too well what it’s like to live in denial. The bubble will burst.
The rest of the night, we savor our time together.
“Weekly mandatory girl time,” we proclaim once we return to her building, and she slips inside while the driver brings me home.