Chapter 30 Declan
DECLAN
Most mobsters fall into one of two categories—either not being religious because they view themselves as God, or somehow still being able to believe in a divine power, despite knowing that said divine power exists, they’re going straight to hell.
The Irish fall into the latter, which is why my mom always prayed for us before she went to bed, and dragged our asses to Mass at least twice a month.
Evidently, I should’ve gone more as a child because I was now living in my own personal hell.
Being so close to Zahra but not being able to claim her as my own is driving me fucking crazy.
The amount of times I’ve found myself jacking off to the thought of her is beyond embarrassing.
Even teenage Declan would think I needed to get a grip, and that's saying something. It doesn’t help that she manages to consume the whole house, in the best way possible.
The scent of her perfume fills nearly every room, and her adorable fluff ball of a cat has taken a liking to me, dropping its toys in front of my room.
Best of all, her normal prim and proper attire has been replaced by loungewear that hugs every inch of her curves and makes me want nothing more but to bury my head into her plump breasts.
“Whatever you’re making, it smells absolutely divine,” she groans, settling into the barstool next to the island in the kitchen.
“Just a classic Irish breakfast. Should be ready soon.” I smile, handing her a mug filled with black coffee while I prep mine, adding a hint of cream and five scoops of sugar. “Surprised you’re not making comments about how it’s offensive to call this sugary monstrosity a coffee?”
Her lips twinge up. “You said it, not me. So long as you’re aware.”
I roll my eyes and turn off the stove and loading her plate with pork sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, hash browns, and sourdough.
“This is your regular breakfast? No wonder you’re so large. You have the appetite of a bear.” She snickers, diving in.
“My breakfast comes with a side of beans, and white and black pudding, but I made sure to leave those off your plate, given I know you Americans find that offensive.” I take a seat next to her, feeling a rush of electricity run down my spine as our legs brush against each other.
“Plus, you have a martial arts session with Arman in a few hours. The extra protein will give you an energy boost.”
How I’d come to memorize her schedule is beyond me, but somehow it seemed my brain was only aware of two different timelines: moments where I was able to spend time with Zahra, and moments where I waited until it was finally time to be with Zahra.
“Yeah, well, I’m going to need more than a session to burn all this off.” Her light tone has a slight edge as she winks at me and pokes a finger at her soft stomach.
The slight dig at her body sends a rush of anger through me. “What are you talking about?”
She waves me off. “Not all of us have the gift of a fast metabolism, or the ability to eat whatever we want and still have washboard abs—”
Without thinking, I cup her jaw in my palm so she’s looking right at me. “You don’t need to change a damn thing about your body. It’s fucking incredible.” I nearly growl at the thought of her thinking differently.
Zahra’s pupils dilate as she leans into my touch, and she swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was fishing for a compliment—”
On instinct, my thumb traces her bottom lip, followed by her jaw. “I know you weren’t. But in case I haven’t made myself clear, every inch of your body is perfection.”
I don’t voice the rest of the thoughts in my head.
How I want nothing more than to punish her for even thinking for a second that there was anything wrong with her body.
I want nothing more than to strip her bare in this kitchen and show her just how much I’ve been dying to get my hands on her lush ass and thighs.
I’d spread her on this table, and use my tongue, fingers, and cock to bring her to the edge, over and over again, until she was nothing but a writhing mess begging me to let her come.
I’d deny her at first until she realizes how utterly stunning she is, and how she has me so tightly wrapped around her finger.
My hardening cock brings me back to the present, forcing me to readjust myself in my chair. Fuck. I hope she doesn’t notice.
Mercifully, her eyes are still trained on my face. “Thank you. Sorry for my little insecure moment.”
“No need to apologize. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.” My voice deepens, betraying my inner fight.
Her back straightens—the smirk on her face is a clear challenge. “Is that a threat, Boss?”
“What if it is?”
Her tongue darts out, tracing her bottom lip. Taunting me. “I don’t do well with threats. Even if they’re empty.”
I tilt my head. “What makes you think my threats are empty?”
Zahra sucks in a breath, but fear is nowhere to be found in her eyes.
Instead, it's filled with…intrigue. Like she wants nothing more than to see how far she can push me until I fully lose it. I drag my hands down my slacks, in a feeble attempt to ground myself. To say she’s thrown me completely off my axis would be an understatement and from the look on her face, she’s more than aware.
“Finish your plate,” I bite, nodding my head to her plate.
Her smirk turns into a shit-eating grin. “Yes, sir.”
Jesus Christ. I give her a dark chuckle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, love.”
All I get is a shrug and a wink in return. The epitome of nonchalance. Though I don’t miss the way she crosses her legs and squeezes her thighs together.
Game on.
“Alright, give me a 2-3-2 next,” Arman shouts.
Zahra responds by using her first to throw a devastating right hook, followed by a left jab, and another right punch. The precision of her hits has rattled Arman’s large frame, as he stumbles back into the corner of the rink.
“Nice, Zahra!” I yell from across the rink, slapping my hand on the mat.
Her only response is a small smirk as she closes in on Arman and berates him with a series of jabs and kicks to the stomach.
His fate seems like a done deal, Zahra clearly having the upper hand, when he grabs her foot mid-kick and pushes her back, launching her across the boxing rink. She lands with a loud thud.
Despite knowing this is all practice, I jump to my feet to help her, but she doesn’t need it.
On her back, she presses her palms behind her and kicks up in one fluid movement.
Though Arman is significantly larger than Zahra, he lacks stealth and speed.
Arman charges straight at her, but she’s faster—managing to move out of the way and jump onto his back, wrapping her arms around him.
She tightens her grip around his neck and torso until he slowly stumbles down to the mat and eventually taps out.
Zahra lets out a howl of cheer as she unwinds herself and stands up, pumping her fist into the air like she just won a heavyweight title.
“Don’t be such a brat,” Arman groans, coming to, rubbing the back of his neck.
“C’mon, you gotta admit that body hold was solid, and you didn’t see it coming.
” Zahra catches me staring at her and winks.
Her entire body is flushed and covered in sweat, and I swear she adds an additional sway to her hips as she walks toward me.
Leaning over the ring ropes, she points to the bench.
“Can you toss me my water bottle, love?”
She snickers, using my regular term of endearment for her.
I don’t trust what may come out of my mouth so instead I choose to give her the bottle without a word.
Zahra holds the bottle above her head, opens her mouth wide, and lets the water pour into her mouth and down her chest. The entire scene is so damn sensual, I can’t control the rush of heat that fills my chest. My hands curl into fists, desperate to touch her, and judging from the look on her face, she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“Enough with the games. None of this is going to help you in the middle of a war,” a loud voice barks from the entryway.
Cyrus. He slides into the rink with the poise of a killer, waving Arman away while scolding Zahra.
“Or do I need to remind you how many recent attempts on your life there have been? And how we’ve made no progress to figure out who is coming for us? ”
She winces in response, making me want to slam Cyrus’ head into the mat.
“Get in position, Zahra,” Cyrus commands. The entire energy of the room shifts, a harsh chill running down my spine.
She does as she’s told, standing in the center of the rink and bringing her hands up to cover her face.
Cyrus lunges at her immediately. The two lock arms, grappling for the upper edge.
Cyrus wins, slowly pushing Zahra closer and closer to the back right corner of the ring.
She lets go of her grip on his arms, ramming her elbows into his head and neck, forcing Cyrus to take a step back.
With the small space between them, Zahra can duck out of the corner and bring the fight back to the center of the ring.
They exchange blow after blow and one thing is made incredibly clear.
Whether Arman realized it or not, he was holding back.
Cyrus has a completely different agenda.
Zahra sends a right hook flying and nails him right in the nose.
Cyrus stumbles back, spitting blood on the mat, and swings his arm at Zahra’s face.
She manages to block the hit with her arms, but the impact stumps her and sends her stumbling backward.
Her cocky demeanor falters for a second, short enough that if I wasn’t hyper fixated on her, I would have missed it, but it's enough to rattle me.
I lunge to enter the rink, but Arman holds me back. “No. She’ll be pissed at you for stepping in, and there’s a very high possibility that she’ll find herself in this situation one day with all the enemies you two have. She needs to see that she can overcome it. Or learn from her mistakes.”
An irritated growl forms in my chest, but I take a step back.
As much as I hate it, he’s right. Zahra can hold her own.
I’ve seen it firsthand time and time again.
There isn’t a single part of me that questions her strength…
though that does little to assuage the very large part of me that hates seeing her get hurt.
I wince as Zahra and Cyrus continue to exchange blows.
Her previous sparring with Arman has clearly drained her, and each jab she lands not only takes a toll on Cyrus but also on herself.
She dodges a punch but loses her footing, enough for Cyrus to drag her down onto the mat.
He wraps one of her legs in a triangle hold and pulls on it hard.
She lets out a guttural scream—a mix of pain and rage—as she uses her free leg to kick Cyrus over and over again.
Zahra lands a kick right in Cyrus’ shoulder, causing him to loosen his grip.
She nails him again, right in the nose this time, sending his head flying back into the mat, delivering the final blow.
Except this time, she’s not shouting in celebration. She’s whimpering in pain, clutching the ankle that Cyrus had gripped. “Fuck. I think it's sprained.”
I’m in the rink in a matter of seconds, wrapping her arm around my neck. “Lean into me, and I’ll help you stand up.”
She listens, allowing me to wrap my hand around her waist and lift her gently. Even with me stabilizing her, I can tell she’s in pain. Sliding her into my arms, I carry her over to the bench and take a closer look at her foot. “It’s starting to swell. We should have a doctor look at it—”
“I’m fine,” she groans, gritting her teeth as she forces herself to stand up.
“Zahra.” I struggle to hide the irritation in my voice. I understand her stubbornness better than anyone. A boss is never allowed to show weakness. “We need a doctor to take a look at you.”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Except when she goes to take a step forward, she nearly stumbles onto the floor.
That’s it.
I throw her over my shoulder, ignoring all her protests to put her down.
She even tries one of her fighting moves against me, in an attempt to get me to break, but with how spent she is, it barely impacts me.
Instead, I readjust her so I’m carrying her bridal style and can easily look at her face. “Zahra, please. Do this for me,” I beg.
Whether it’s the shock from hearing me say please, or the injury she sustained, her eyes soften and she curls into my chest, giving me a small nod.