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He leans back slightly, his gaze lingering on my face longer than necessary.
“I’m starting to realize that.”
As the night unfolds, the stiffness melts away.
We talk — first about practical things: the terms of the marriage, the alliance, the timelines. But gradually, unexpectedly, the conversation shifts.
I tell him about studying international relations, about wanting to work in diplomacy, about feeling suffocated as Thiago Delgado’s daughter, always a symbol but never truly seen for me.
“A princess in a luxury glass cage,” I murmur, breaking open another crab claw. “That’s all I’ve ever been.”
For a long moment, Zasha says nothing.
Then, quietly:
“You deserve more than that.”
The words hit me harder than I expect.
I glance up, heart fluttering, catching the faintest softening in his eyes — a crack in the armor.
By the time we leave, the night has turned cool, the city humming softly around us.
Outside, I wrap my arms lightly around myself, feeling the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
Zasha takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulder, his expression unreadable, his sharp profile cut in silver by the streetlights.
His masculine scent drifts from his jacket to my nostrils, and I have to remind myself not to purr like a satisfied cat.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For tonight.”
He nods once, his eyes steady on mine.
For a beat, we just stand there — neither of us moving, neither of us speaking. The air between us is tight, charged, and I feel the back of my neck prickle with the sheer intensity of his gaze.
And then — without warning — he steps closer.
His hand lifts, rough fingers brushing lightly along my jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth in a touch that steals the breath straight from my lungs.
I don’t move. I can’t.
His eyes hold mine for one long, suspended moment — and then he kisses me.
It’s not slow. It’s not delicate.
It’s fierce, hungry, all heat and power, crashing through the careful distance we’ve kept all night. My fingers clutch at hisjacket before I can stop myself, my body swaying into his, heart racing so fast I can’t think.
When we break apart, I’m gasping quietly, blinking up at him, dazed.
Zasha’s breath is rough, his jaw tightening as he takes a small step back.
By the time we slide into the car, my skin is still tingling.
Zasha pulls out from the curb in smooth, controlled silence, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lightly on his lap.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence isn’t awkward — it’s heavy, charged, almost fragile, like if I say the wrong thing, it’ll shatter whatever just passed between us.