Chapter 12
Nikolai
Every morning I wake up with my wife curled up next to me. Her soft ass pressed to my cock, my arm around her waist. I breathe her in: cocoa butter, warmth, and something underneath that’s just Zara. My wife. In my bed. In my house.
But one night, she wakes me with screams. Raw, terrified, ripped from somewhere deep inside her. I’m on her before my eyes are fully open, pulling my girl against my chest, one hand in her hair, the other locked around her body.
“Hey. Hey. You’re okay. I’m here.”
She’s shaking. Sobbing. Her fingers clutching my shirt like she’s drowning.
“The alley,” she gasps. “I keep seeing it. The blood. His face when you…”
“Look at me.” I grab her chin, tilting her face up. Her eyes are wild, tears streaming down her pretty face. “Look at me, Zara.” When she does, I tell her, “No one is gonna hurt you. Not the cops, not some ghost, not a fucking soul on this planet. You know why?”
She shakes her head.
“Because they’d have to get through me. And baby, no one gets through me.”
She lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “That’s the most reassuring or the most terrifying thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I smile and kiss her forehead.
She buries her face in my neck, and I feel her tears on my skin, hot and wet.
I hold her with my arms wrapped around her so tight she can barely breathe, my lips in her hair, my hands gripping her soft body like something might try to take her from me in the dark.
Until the shaking stops. Her breathing evens out.
And she goes limp against me, falling back asleep.
Trusting me to keep her safe while she does.
* * *
I come home the next day with a velvet box.
Zara’s on the couch reading, with her legs tucked under her, wearing one of my Henleys and a pair of sleep shorts.
Her curls are piled on top of her head; she’s got no makeup on, and she’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen, smiling huge when she sees me.
“What’s that?” she asks, eyeing the box I’m holding.
I drop it in her lap. “Open it.”
She rolls her eyes, still grinning, then cracks the lid. And her breath catches.
It’s a ring. A vintage emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds, set in platinum.
“Nik…”
I take it out of the box and slide it on her finger. It fits perfectly because I had it sized using the ring she leaves on the bathroom counter at night.
“You’re my wife. You wear my ring.”
She stares at it on her hand. The emerald catching the light, glinting against her dark skin. Fucking perfect on her.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“It was my grandmother’s.”
Her eyes snap up to meet mine. “Baby…”
“She would have fucking loved you. You two are a lot alike. Tough, mouthy, stubborn.” I brush my thumb across the ring on her finger. “It belongs on you.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. For once, Zara Maksimov is speechless.
“If you cry, I’m taking it back,” I warn with a curl of my lips.
“I’m not crying,” she says, sniffling.
Then she grabs my shirt and pulls me down for a kiss.