Chapter 52 Zara
Enzo’s fingers move across my back, sketching lazy, unspoken things into my skin. I’m warm, wrapped in sheets that still carry the heat of last night, but it’s his touch that keeps me tethered here—in the quiet, in the safety of him.
“You’re awake,” I say quietly, voice rough with sleep, cheek pressed to his chest.
“I like waking up early,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. “I get to lay with you in my arms.”
I smile against his skin. “Do you rehearse that shit or does it just come to you?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, his hand slipping to my waist. “Natural talent.”
I stretch beneath the covers, content and comfortable. “You’re staying in bed with me all day, right?”
He hesitates just long enough for me to know I won’t like what’s coming.
“I need to stop by Monarch,” he says gently, smoothing his hand over my hip like it might soften the blow.
I groan, dramatic and immediate, and yank the blanket over my head. “Absolutely not. Tell your club you're dead.”
“They’d probably believe it,” he mutters. “It’s been two weeks since I stepped foot inside.”
“Pretty sure it’s not falling apart without you.” I peek out from under the blanket, giving him my best unimpressed glare. “Pretty sure your DNA is literally stitched into the furniture.”
He laughs, unbothered. “That place also happens to fund our ridiculously expensive espresso beans and your growing collection of black silk.”
“Ugh.” I sigh. “Fine. Go play boss man.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be back before you start missing me.”
“I already miss you.”
He grins. “Then I’ll make it quick.”
He gets up, moves through his morning routine like something out of a damn commercial—dark slacks, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, gun clipped at his side. It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. And I’m fully unrepentant about the way I ogle him as he buttons up.
When he leans down to kiss me goodbye, it’s lingering. A soft pull at my bottom lip, a whisper of a promise behind his teeth.
“Stay out of trouble,” he says against my mouth.
“No promises,” I respond.
He disappears with a wink and a warning, and I wait—just long enough for the echo of his footsteps to fade—before I move.
I slip from bed quietly, the hardwood cool against my bare feet as I make my way across the suite. Enzo’s scent clings to my skin—salt and spice. I don’t bother putting on a robe.
My duffel sits tucked against the wall of the closet, weathered and almost empty now, but the secret it carries is untouched.
I kneel beside it, my pulse steady but heavy, fingers searching for the tiny zipper hidden beneath the lining—the one I stitched in myself years ago.
A hiding place born not of necessity, but of impulse. Of obsession.
The tests are still there. Placed in neat, careful rows like contraband.
Three different brands. Early results, digitals, the ones with thin pink lines that always blur if you stare too long.
Accuracy was never the point. It’s about control.
Or maybe surrender. About the ache of possibility, no matter how far-fetched.
I choose one without thinking, letting my fingers close around the cardboard box at random. This one has the pink lines that take a full minute to form. The kind that stretches sixty seconds into eternity, holding your breath hostage while you count every tick like it might change your life.
In the bathroom, I unwrap it. There’s no rush. My fingers are steady—practiced. The motions have become ritual, my own strange liturgy. I follow the instructions, replace the cap, and lay it flat on the counter.
And then I stare at it. Like I always do.
The truth is, I don’t need the result. I already know it will be negative.
I’ve known every single time. Sometimes, I wasn’t even sleeping with anyone when I tested.
Whole stretches of my life where I wasn’t touched, wasn’t kissed, wasn’t claimed—and still I’d find myself here, waiting for a plastic stick to tell me something I already knew.
It’s odd. I know that. Even in my own head, it sounds absurd. But it’s not the answer that matters. It’s the act itself. The quiet suspension. The fantasy. The rush that comes from pretending, just for a moment, that life inside me might be real.
And that possibility, once so out of reach, but now a tangible thing, is enough to set my skin buzzing and my lungs tight.
I already feel it in the way my body aches, in the way his cum still lingers inside me, a mark of being claimed.
My thighs press together instinctively, trying to recreate the pressure, the stretch of him, the sharp snap of his hips when he growls about filling me.
God, I love that part. The aftermath. The weight of his body collapsing over mine.
The lazy drag of his fingers down my stomach, his voice low and possessive, whispering promises—gonna fuck a baby into you, Angel.
Gonna watch your belly grow with what I put there.
I bite my lip until it stings. Because with Enzo, it’s never just sex.
Not for me. It’s a need that runs deeper, something damn near primal.
I crave the heat of him, the heaviness, the raw way he takes me.
But more than that, I crave the possibility.
The fragile chance that maybe this time, my body will listen.
Maybe this time, there will be more than aching muscles and stretched skin. Maybe I won’t just be pretending.
That’s what it is, most days—the fantasy, the ache, the rush I get every time I reach for one of those hidden tests. I don’t cry when it’s negative. I don’t even hope. I imagine.
I imagine the moment it turns positive. The way Enzo’s eyes would darken with something more than hunger, something wrecked and reverent, pride etched into every line of his face.
I imagine him dropping to his knees, pressing his mouth to my stomach, swearing to protect what’s his before he’s even heard a heartbeat.
I imagine him sliding into me again, not with his usual veracity, but carefully, as if every thrust is a vow and every breath a promise that his legacy already lives inside me.
My fingers curl around the edge of the counter, the marble cool against my skin, grounding me.
I tell myself it’s not desperation, not some hollow need.
But the truth is, I do want it. I want the softness and the permanence of motherhood.
I want a family born not of fear or obligation, but of love, of care.
I want to carry him with me in the most visceral way possible, to swell with his children, one after another, until my body is a map of everything we built together.
And yet, layered beneath that want, there’s still the darker hunger—the raw, reckless thrill of knowing he could leave me marked in a way no one else ever could. Of being the woman he trusted enough to risk it with. The one he didn’t pull out of. The one he wanted to be full of him.
The twisted sweetness of believing that something real could grow out of the wreckage of our obsession.
I pick up the test from the counter, its plastic smooth against my fingers, and carry it with me as I sink onto the edge of the tub.
My knees draw together, the stick balanced across my lap like something sacred, a piece of ritual I’ve performed more times than I can count.
The foil wrapper lies crumpled where I discarded it, the box still open on the counter—evidence of a secret I’ve never shared.
I’m in that space now, the one between fantasy and reality, where the lines blur and the act itself feels as important as the result. It isn’t shameful. It isn’t desperation. It’s something deeper, something woven into the marrow of me. A ritual of wanting, of claiming, of imagining what could be.
The quiet of the room folds around me, heavy, almost meditative—until it fractures. The soft click of the suite door carries in, followed by the recognizable sound of leather soles against tile.
“Zara?” Enzo’s voice drifts closer, casual, unguarded. “I just came back for my laptop.”
My pulse spikes. My body jolts upright as if caught doing something bad, though I make no move to hide the test. My heart thrums hard and fast, every beat echoing the intimacy of what he’s about to see.
And then he’s there. Filling the doorway, his laptop tucked under one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled, his watch flashing beneath the light.
His gaze tracks the scene—the crumpled foil on the counter, the open box, the single test resting across my lap—and he stops. Not sharply. Not with shock. He simply stills, the kind of silence that feels heavy with understanding, with possibility.
The silence stretches, charged but not heavy. His expression gives me nothing—blank, assessing, like he’s cataloging the scene without jumping to conclusions. Then he moves, careful, as though I’m something fragile, something that might spook if he reaches too fast.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice soft as he sets his laptop on the vanity.
There’s no edge or suspicion. Just quiet concern wrapped in curiosity, and that makes it worse—makes the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“I’m not pregnant,” I blurt, too fast, too loud. My throat feels tight, heat creeping up my neck. “I mean…I don’t think I am.”
His eyes hold mine. Patient.
I grip the sides of the tub, nails biting porcelain as if that might anchor me, and force the words out before my courage withers. “I just…like to test.”
One dark brow arches. Not in mockery. Not in judgment. Just…listening.
“It’s not about the result,” I rush to explain, my voice breaking into nervous fragments. “It’s part of the kink. The ritual. The possibility. The idea that maybe, just maybe…” My words falter. I bite down on my lip, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I know it sounds crazy.”
“Angel.” His voice cuts clean through my spiral, steady and commanding. “Stop.”
I blink, breath caught.
“Nothing you want is crazy,” he says, like he needs me to hear it, to believe it.