Chapter 35 #2
I glanced at Zion—six-foot-three—standing next to my five-foot-five. The difference really was significant.
“Maybe it would be better if she sat on the railing. Sir, you could put an arm around her to hold her steady. I bet the photo will turn out better.”
I frowned at the glass railing, then at the dizzying drop below. I looked at Zion—maybe this wasn't a good idea.
But before I could say anything, Zion stepped closer, placing his hands on my waist. With a little shriek escaping my lips, he lifted me and set me on the edge of the railing.
His eyes locked on mine. I barely dared to breathe as his hands held me, promising safety.
Zion wrapped an arm around my waist, and once I'd settled, he turned to face the camera, relaxed beside me.
I clung to his shoulders as if my life depended on it.
He seemed to notice my fear, because he whispered so softly that only I could hear.
“Don't be afraid. I would never let you fall.” At his words, my heart couldn't decide whether to calm down or beat faster. I willed it to calm, and it did—a little—but not enough to loosen my grip on his shoulder. The photographer gazed at us in wonder, then raised the camera to his eyes.
“Smile!” he called out cheerfully, and I, already grinning like an idiot, broke into a full-on manic smile—partly from sheer terror of falling and partly from the warmth of Zion's hands pressing into my waist. I pressed my cheek against his and bared my teeth like my life depended on it.
The photographer snapped two photos with his instant camera, the kind that spits out the picture right away.
The first captured the panoramic view of the city—all the lights, the lake, the moon, with the two of us centered in the frame.
The second focused on our faces and my wild, unhinged smile, while Zion remained composed beside me.
I slid down to the ground, savoring every inch of contact with his body, but the moment the photographer handed us the two prints, I lunged for them, desperate to snatch them before Zion could see.
I was mortified by my expression. In the second photo, he looked gorgeous—like a god in the night, in his black sweater and elegant coat—and I...
looked like a complete maniac with a crazed grin and red, glistening eyes from crying just minutes before.
Unfortunately, he was faster and snatched the close-up, making it vanish in seconds. A satisfied smile played on his lips.
“Thanks for your time, and enjoy your dinner.” The photographer tapped his fist against his chest and headed off through the garden to continue his work.
I shot Zion an uncomfortable look.
“Could you trade photos with me?” I asked, shyly clutching the first full-body shot. In that one, my smile didn't look quite so sinister, and you could barely see my eyes since we were far from the camera. Zion raised an eyebrow, challenging me.
“No,” he replied simply, settling back in his chair.
“Please! I think I like the one you have better!” I pouted as I sat down.
“And lose your spontaneous smile? No way. I'm going to frame this one,” he teased, clearly enjoying himself.
“Please, Zion. I look horrible. Keep the first one—we look better in the first one,” I grumbled, holding out the image and waving it at him.
“Kay, don't make me start complimenting your beauty, because if I do, I might not be able to stop tonight. Just let me keep the photo. I really liked it. Truly.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but the waiter arrived with our plates, and the smell of the food stole my attention.
Reluctantly, I tucked the photo into the inner pocket of my coat while Zion savored his victory.
After we settled in and started eating, silence fell over us.
Since I didn't want silence that night, I took a sip of wine and seized the chance to ask him about something that had been nagging at me ever since I'd learned about Kaori Yamamoto.
I cleared my throat to get his attention.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
He took a sip from his glass and wiped his mouth with a napkin before responding:
“Ask away!”
“When I got to the surgical room and saw the state Miss Yamamoto was in, I was terrified I wouldn't be able to keep my promise. There was a moment when I could have lost her because there weren't enough people to help me.” I swallowed hard. “Do you know what saved me?”
“No.” His brow was furrowed, but he seemed intent on catching every word I said.
“The necklace.”
His jaw clenched for such a brief instant that I could barely believe I'd caught it. He said nothing, just kept looking at me, waiting for whatever I was going to say next.
“I saw the necklace around her neck and recharged it. It stopped the bleeding and let me continue the surgery even without help.” I thought for a second about Serguei and decided to correct myself, as if easing a small weight off my conscience. “Or almost without help—one person did help me.”
A moment of silence stretched between us.
Zion stared at me, searching my face, his eyes full of unspoken questions.
He seemed to know there was a question buried in what I'd said, but he wasn't going to answer it unless I asked outright.
I wasn't eager to ask either, but between posing the question or going without an answer, I chose to ask.
“You gave her my necklace.” I stated the obvious—so obvious I almost slapped my forehead.
He nodded. A thousand questions flooded my mind, questions I wanted answers to. Or at least I thought I did. What was the whole story? What did she really mean to him? What happened to Akira? This time, surprising me, Zion didn't stay silent waiting for a direct question.
“Kaori is my second-in-command, the closest thing to family I've ever had in Interion.
We've known each other since we were kids—it was friendship at first sight.
Me, her, and... her brother... We trained together at the army academy and earned our ranks fighting side by side in the same squadron.
I've known her my whole life. I know how capable she is, and she sees the army the same way I do.
She looks at my men the way I do, and I'd trust their lives to her.
Kaori is very, let's say... spirited.” He scratched the back of his head.
“That made all those years of pressure on the battlefield so much lighter. I could share the burden of having so many lives on my shoulders. She was supposed to be commanding the army while I was on vacation, but there was some kind of interference from higher up.”
“She's the girl in the photo, isn't she? Akira's sister.”
I heard Zion swallow hard at the mere mention of his friend's name. The shadows clung to his skin as if trying to comfort him, and his eyes filled with such deep sorrow that somehow—whether through the bond or just the sheer intensity—I felt an echo of his pain.
“Yes,” he replied, and said nothing more. I desperately wanted to hear about Akira, but I wouldn't push him—not after seeing how much pain those memories caused.
In my short life, I'd discovered there were three types of pain: the first was loud and released itself as fury—it could be aggressive and explosive, but when the outburst ended, things tended to improve; the second was mournful and drained away with tears—it was intense and took longer to heal, but with time and a bit of therapy and help, it softened and stayed at manageable levels; the third was the kind that didn't manifest at all and stayed trapped in the silence of a broken heart.
That was the worst, because it corroded you from the inside out until it destroyed everything or until it freed itself somehow.
I feared Zion's was the last kind.
He stayed quiet for so long that I started to think he'd forgotten he was with me at dinner. So I cleared my throat to get his attention. It worked—he pulled himself together and continued:
“I had the necklace, but my life wasn't in danger and she was… you know, much worse off than me. She's important to me, so I lent her the necklace. I hope you don't mind.”
It was true—I knew from the photo that they were close, obvious from the way she casually draped her arm around Zion's neck and smiled with satisfaction.
Somehow, that had never bothered me before, but today, when I saw my necklace around her neck, I felt uneasy about the whole situation.
It was silly and wrong to feel that way—I couldn't even name the feeling—but it was impossible to control.
“I don't mind,” I lied. Then I went back to eating in silence to end the uncomfortable subject.
I could feel he was still looking at me, but I didn't look up.
I needed time to process what he'd said and to avoid asking more questions he obviously wasn't willing to answer.
A few seconds later, I heard Zion's silverware clinking against his plate too.
We ate in silence for almost the entire meal, even though I'd promised myself that wouldn't happen.
When the plates were cleared, Zion ordered another bottle of wine, and as soon as the waiter left, I noticed him fidgeting in his chair.
All the electric tension that had built up between us seemed to evaporate.
So I watched him, giving him an opening to say what was bothering him. He quickly picked up on the cue.
“There's something I'd like to discuss with you.” He scratched the end of one eyebrow with his thumb. “Actually, it's something I'd like to tell you.”
This time, I was the one caught off guard.
“I owe you an explanation for my less-than-gentlemanly behavior,” he said without ceremony, and I leaned in, paying closer attention. “I know that in the beginning, when I came back, I was extremely rude, crude, and negligent as a partner, but there is an explanation, as I said before.”
“I'm all ears.” I rested my elbows on the table, staring at him while suppressing any emotion my face might betray.
Zion cleared his throat and continued: