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“Yes,” she says quietly. “But I’ll move them tomorrow.”
I nod once; it makes sense for her to want to familiarize herself with her new environment before moving her belongings. I’d wanted to ask her to move her things in before the wedding. But I hadn’t wanted to seem pushy.
The truth is, Xiomara Delgado is growing on me, and I need to find a way to make her want me. I have a year to convince her that I’m more than the grumpy bastard everyone sees.
And I am going to start by showing her I can be a gentleman.
The drive back to my house is wrapped in silence.
Mara sits beside me, hands folded neatly in her lap, her face turned slightly toward the window. The city lights slip past, glittering like scattered diamonds. I grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary, knuckles pale, and jaw set.
But with every breath, I can smell the faint trace of her perfume, light and soft, curling through the air between us. Every time I steal a glance, I catch the delicate line of her profile, the shimmer of her earrings, the elegant curve of her neck.
I’ve fought wars on streets where men didn’t walk away alive. I’ve outplayed rivals and taken down dozens of enemies all by myself. So why does sitting beside this woman, this slip of a bride, make me feel like I’m crossing a minefield barefoot?
When we pull up to the house, I kill the engine and step out, moving to open her door. She looks up at me, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to speak — but then she just murmurs a “Thank you,” and steps out gracefully.
The house looms before us: a sleek, modern fortress of steel and glass, sharp-edged and cold.
It suits me.
Clean lines. No clutter. No softness.
I’ve lived here alone for years, except for the vetted cleaner who comes in twice a week, and I’ve kept it that way for a reason. But tonight, for the first time, it feels… different.
Like it’s holding its breath and waiting for her approval.
Inside, the silence stretches between us. Her heels click lightly on the polished floor as I lead her up the sweeping staircase, past minimalist artwork and high windows reflecting the city’s faint glow.
She moves quietly, gracefully — but I can sense the fucking tension in her, too. We’re strangers in the same space. Bound together by vows we barely spoke.
At the end of the hall, I pause.
I open the door to the guest suite — large, softly lit, tastefully decorated. I mentally clear my throat, keeping my voice level.
“This will be your room.”
She turns to me, her expression composed, eyes calm.Is it relief I see in them?
“Thank you, Zasha.” She says with a small, polite smile and a nod.
She slips past me, disappearing into the room, the soft whisper of the door closing behind her. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the wood. My heart pounds harder than I want to admit, a heavy, restless beat against my ribs.
It feels as if I have to fight all the demons from hell to keep from knocking, no, pulling down her door and demanding she ride me till dawn.
I shake off the urge and walk to my room, closing the door with a soft click. Shutting out the hallway, the house, and the world. For a moment, I stand there in the dark, back against the wood, head tipped back, eyes closed.
My chest feels tight — too tight — like the weight I’ve carried for years has suddenly doubled.
I pull off my jacket, throwing it over the chair, and scrub both hands roughly over my face.
A low, frustrated breath claws out of me.
No woman has ever made me sexually frustrated before, and now here is Mara under my roof, and I am being forced to be a gentle man, because I want to woo her like any sane man should.
But then I am not fucking sane.
I turn away sharply, ripping at the buttons of my shirt, dragging it off and tossing it aside.