Page 39

I collapse onto the bed, flat on my back, eyes locked on the ceiling. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I raise them and punch the pillow once, twice, twisting it into any shape I think will help.
It doesn’t.
All I can see, even in the dark, is the curve of her mouth, the flash of mischief in her eyes when she teased me, the way she moved across the room like she owned it.
I drag a hand over my face again, rough and frustrated.
Goddammit.
I roll onto my side, punching the pillow into place and squeezing my eyes shut. But sleep refuses to come.
The real war tonight isn’t with rivals or enemies. It isn’t on the streets or in the shadows. It’s here. Right in this room. My cock hardens as my body rages against itself.
12
Chapter 11
Xiomara
The sunlight slips across the bed in long, golden lines, warming the pale silk sheets tangled around my legs.
I lie still, staring up at the high, sleek ceiling of the guest room. My new room. My new home.
The space around me feels too big, too polished, too still — a room designed to impress, not to comfort. But I tell myself, this space is mine now. This is where I will make a home. Not just for a year, but forever. And definitely not in a separate room from Zasha.
A soft laugh slips past my lips, though it’s tinged with nerves.
One step at a time, Xiomara.
My heart races quietly in my chest, thudding an uneven rhythm. Does Zasha feel this restlessness too? Did last night — the kiss, the weight of the vows, the way our eyes kept locking across the room — stir anything in him? Or was it all just duty, another move on the chessboard?
I turn onto my side, dragging a hand through my loose hair. The sheets are cool against my skin, the faint smell of fresh linen filling my nose.
I let out a long, soft sigh. There’s no point just lying here, wondering.
With a quiet groan, I throw back the covers, planting my bare feet on the cool floor. I stretch my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders to shake off the strange mix of tension and anticipation clinging to me.
The en-suite bathroom is a masterpiece of marble and glass, the kind of place you see in magazines but never expect to stand in. As I step under the hot spray of the shower, I close my eyes and let the water run over me, clearing away the lingering threads of sleep and doubt.
This is my home now. This is my life now. And if I have anything to say about it, I won’t be sleeping down the hall forever.
Wrapped in a soft robe, I pad quietly down the hallway, my bare feet whispering against the floors. The house is still, the kindof stillness that hums with money, power, and precision. Every surface gleams, every angle sharp — a fortress dressed in luxury.
When I step into the kitchen, I pause, eyes sweeping over the immaculate countertops, the high-end appliances gleaming under recessed lights. Of course, even the kitchen in Zasha’s home feels like a fortress — beautiful but untouched, like no one ever steps in here to do something as mundane as make breakfast.
But that’s about to change.
I tie the robe a little tighter and move confidently toward the fridge, pulling it open. Fresh eggs. Cream. Butter. A tiny smirk touches my lips. He may not cook, but someone sure keeps this place stocked like a chef’s dream.
I gather what I need, pulling out a mixing bowl and whisk, humming softly under my breath. It feels oddly grounding, standing here whisking eggs, stirring in flour, pouring batter onto the hot pan. For a moment, I can almost pretend I’m back home in the Delgado kitchen, barefoot and laughing with my mother, the two of us cooking for my father after one of his long days.
The smell of pancakes fills the air — butter and vanilla, warm and rich — and I let the nostalgia wrap around me like a blanket. It’s a small comfort, but it’s mine.
I flip the pancakes expertly, watching the golden-brown surfaces bubble and crisp at the edges. My heart feels lighter than ithas all morning, like maybe, just maybe, I can start my own traditions here and turn them into something Zasha would always look forward to.
I stack the fluffy pancakes onto a plate, setting them on the counter with a quiet sense of satisfaction. Just as I’m reaching for the syrup, I sense his presence, so I turn around, and there he is.
Zasha stands in the doorway, dark and sharp, his black T-shirt stretching across broad shoulders, damp hair tousled, eyes fixed on me.