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It drifts to her.
Xiomara Delgado.
I remind myself that this marriage is political. Tactical. A calculated arrangement between empires. She’s just a name on a contract, a symbol, a diplomatic bridge. Nothing more.
And yet…
Since she returned from university, she’s become impossible to ignore.
I’ve watched her from the edges of cartel meetings, from the side lines when our paths cross — sharp, headstrong, holding her ground with men twice her age. She’s no pampered little princess. She’s clever, quick, and underneath her polished exterior, I sense a restless, hungry spirit.
And I remember the first time I truly saw her.
Seventeen, tipsy, stumbling out of a party she had no business attending. Her so-called friends were leading her straight into the hands of men who planned to take advantage of her.
I was there on surveillance, scoping the property for an unrelated operation. I hadn’t planned to intervene. But when I saw her, half-dragged inside the back of a car, something primal surged up in me, and I stepped in.
By the time I was done, three men were on the ground. Mara, wide-eyed and trembling, was in my arms as I pulled her free.
I’d handed her back to Thiago that night without a word, letting him deliver the lecture. But the protective instinct lodged deep in my gut never fully went away.
And now, standing here under the weight of our new alliance, I feel something shift. That instinct has changed, and it’s not just protection anymore.
It’s something far more fucking dangerous.
I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers for a moment over the screen, then I dial her number.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Mara,” I say, keeping my tone smooth and polite.
There’s a slight hitch in her breath. “Zasha?”
“Yes.” I pause. “I would like to speak to you privately.”
She sounds surprised. “Uh… okay.”
“Good.” My voice stays even, but something flickers low in my chest. “Be ready in the next two hours. I’ll pick you up.”
Another small pause. “Okay.”
She wanted to know how I got her number, wanted to talk some more, but end the call without giving myself time to rethink it, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
“It’s not a date.” I mutter, “It’s strategy.”
The next evening, I pull up to the Delgado estate at precisely six in the evening.
The grounds are expansive and pristine, with guards positioned discreetly along the perimeters, but my gaze is drawn immediately to the front steps.
And there she is.
Mara steps out of the house, framed by the soft gold light spilling from the entryway. She’s wearing a simple peach dress — delicate, understated, and yet somehow it hits me harder than anything extravagant could have.
The color warms her skin, the fabric skimming the lines of her figure just enough to make my breath catch, if only for a split second. Her dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, her expression calm, graceful, poised.
But when her eyes lift and meet mine, there’s something electric in the air — a flicker of nervous energy, of restrained anticipation.
I school my face into its usual impassive mask, stepping forward.