Chapter Twelve
I FINALLY KNOW WHAT it means to be loved.
Zacharie hasn’t ever said the words, but his actions speak so loudly that even if he did, I probably wouldn’t hear them anyway.
My love tank has been overflowing since moving into his home.
He’s there for me like no one has ever been there for me.
He cares about what I like and don’t like, remembers every small preference I mention in passing, and he never tired of answering the gazillion questions I peppered him with when I asked for his help with my next book.
Even now, I can feel his eyes on me as we walk through the federal building, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back.
The hallways are all clean lines and fluorescent lighting, the kind of institutional architecture that makes everyone look vaguely guilty.
Agents in dark suits move past us with purpose, their gazes sliding over me with professional disinterest before catching on Zacharie and sharpening into recognition.
The women, though.
The women have been giving me the side-eye since we stepped through security.
I try not to notice. I try to focus on the mission—we’re here because protocol requires us to be interviewed separately about Braxton, and anything I can remember might help catch him before he hurts anyone else.
But it’s hard to ignore the way a redhead in a pencil skirt looks me up and down, then glances at Zacharie with an expression that clearly says: Her? Really?
I smooth down my cardigan and remind myself that jealousy is unproductive.
“This way.” Zacharie guides me toward a door at the end of the corridor. “I’ll be in the next room. If you need anything—”
“I’ll be fine.” I make sure to smile so he’d stop worrying about me. “Go save the world or whatever.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face before he disappears through an adjacent door, and I’m left alone in what looks like a standard interrogation room. Metal table, uncomfortable chairs, one-way mirror that I’m definitely not going to think too hard about.
The door opens behind me.
“Mirabella de los Reyes, isn’t it?”
I turn.
The woman standing in the doorway is tall, blonde, and beautiful in that polished, intimidating way that makes me immediately aware of every wrinkle in my cardigan. She moves like someone who knows exactly how much space she’s entitled to take up—which is all of it.
“I’m Special Agent Tanya Jeffries.”
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water.
Tanya.
As in Zacharie’s Almost Wife.
I must react visibly, because her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches.
“You seem to recognize my name.”
“Um, yes.” There’s no point lying when my face gives everything away. “Zacharie told me about his work and, um, colleagues.”
“Since Zacky—”
Why is she calling him something that rhymes with yucky?
“—isn’t the type to mince words, I’m sure you know I’m more than that.”
Her tone is pleasant. Her smile is pleasant. Everything about her is pleasant in a way that makes me feel like I’m being slowly lowered into a tank of sharks.
I just nod and work on keeping my own smile in place. Jealousy isn’t healthy. Jealousy isn’t productive. Jealousy is—
Tanya settles into the chair across from me and flips open a folder with manicured fingers.
“So...you were a favor.”
“A favor?”
She smiles, and this time there’s nothing pleasant about it.
“How like him not to tell you. A colleague asked for his assistance in rescuing you.” She taps a page in the folder. “Cases like yours are always difficult, given the fact that it’s your own blood who got you in trouble.”
“Uh...yeah.”
I came here thinking there might be something I could do to help catch Braxton. But it seems I misunderstood, and I’m the one being questioned for—I don’t know—unnecessary use of agency funds and resources?
“And I see here in his report—” Tanya’s eyes scan the page. “—that you were shot.”
“Um—”
“Because you disobeyed a direct command from your assigned agent.”
I’m trying my best to think of her in a good light. I really am. But why is she making it sound like the agency would have been better off leaving me in Vegas to be auctioned?
“The other girls from your case,” Tanya continues, her tone light, conversational, devastating, “are all thriving in their new identities. New cities, new names, new lives. Clean breaks, just as intended.” She pauses. “And yet here you are. Still creating problems.”
My stomach sinks.
Tanya closes the folder and clasps her hands beneath her chin, studying me with the detached interest of a scientist examining a particularly disappointing lab specimen.
“Are you aware of how extraordinarily lucky you are to have Zacky rescue you? He’s the agent we send to dismantle the world’s most powerful crime and terror organizations from within. But because he owed a friend a favor, he had to turn down several critical missions to save you.”
“I—”
“And now this.” Her voice drops, losing the false pleasantness entirely. “This Braxton situation. More resources. More risk. More of Zacky’s time and attention diverted from work that actually matters.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Tanya leans forward slightly.
“Please do not cause further trouble.” Her words are crisp, each one landing like a small, sharp stone.
“If you keep disobeying directives and acting entirely on impulse, you’ll end up getting one of our top agents killed.
” She pauses, letting the weight of that settle.
“And frankly, darling—agents like him don’t grow on trees.
Civilians who get them killed, unfortunately, do. ”
The silence that follows feels like drowning.
I don’t know how long we sit there—me frozen, her watching—before Tanya stands and smooths her skirt.
“Before I let you go, I want to tell you something, woman to woman...”
****
ZACHARIE IS ALREADY waiting when Tanya steps out of the office, and his gaze immediately narrows the moment he sees my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, please.”
I jump at the sound of Tanya’s voice. I hadn’t realized she’d followed me out.
She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us with an expression I can’t quite read.
“She’s a grown woman, Zacky. Stop babying her, or she’ll get you killed.”
Zacharie doesn’t even look at her.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Something flashes across Tanya’s face—anger, maybe, or contempt—but Zacharie is already taking my hand and guiding me down the corridor, away from her, away from the fluorescent lights and the side-eyes and the suffocating weight of everything she said.
My heart aches at his touch.
I used to find his grip reassuring. Like he was the anchor that gave my whole world balance.
But now I feel like I’m the anchor between us.
Because it could very well be like Tanya said. I could end up slowing him down. Burdening him. Maybe even getting him killed because of my foolish impulsiveness.
The thought follows me out of the building, into the California sunshine, into the back of his waiting car.
Zacharie cups my chin once the door closes behind us, turning my face toward his.
“Talk to me. What did Tanya say to upset you?”
“Nothing that isn’t true.”
My voice comes out uneven, and I shake my head when he asks me to tell him anyway.
“Just...” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Don’t let any foolish thoughts enter your head. Oui?”
“Oui.”
I manage to laugh, but my heart is breaking.
If Zacharie himself thinks I’m foolish, then maybe I really am.
And what if I do get him hurt—or even killed—because of it?
My heart is still heavy when we get home, but as soon as we’re inside, Zacharie suddenly lifts me up against the wall, his mouth is crushing mine, and it’s like he just knows.
Sometimes, it’s tenderness that heals your heart. Soft words. Gentle touches. The quiet reassurance of being held.
But there are also times when you just want to lose yourself in a kiss so scorchingly hot that all you can do is whimper.
And it’s really like our souls are entwined in every way, with Zacharie deepening the kiss as his body rocks against mine.
The marble of the foyer wall is cool against my back, but everywhere he touches burns.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket.
My arms wind around his neck. My legs tighten around his waist as he presses closer, harder, like he’s trying to fuse us into one person.
His kiss burns all the way down to my very core.
The friction between our bodies tightens into something that just keeps building and building and building—
“Mira.”
He grits my name out against my lips, and that’s all it takes.
I shatter in his arms, a torrent of pleasure pounding into me, wave after breathless wave, and all I can do is cling to him and shake apart while his hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise.
I’m not sure how much time passes.
Minutes. Hours. A small eternity wrapped in the warmth of his body.
Eventually, he carries me down the corridor, past the cathedral windows where the last of the sunset spills golden light across the floors, and into his bedroom. The sheets are cool and soft when he lays me down, and my eyes drift open as he settles beside me.
His blue eyes are magical.
Warm ice. Cold heat. Crystal clear in his desire to protect me. Cherish me. Love me.
And that’s when I find myself praying.
Please, God.
Please.
Don’t let anything happen to him because of me.