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Mara expertly takes care of the wound without blinking or shaking her hands. She stitches me up with a surgeon's precision, and I am impressed by her skills and bravery.
When she finishes, we go to the living room, and she vanishes into the kitchen, moving quietly, leaving me stretched out on the couch, one arm draped over the back and the other resting gently against my bandaged side.
I watch the soft glow spill from the kitchen doorway, listen to the faint clatter of dishes, the gentle rustle of her feet on the tile.
A few minutes later, she reappears, balancing a small plate in her hands.
“Here,” she says softly, setting it down on the coffee table.
“I thought you might want something. You barely ate this morning.”
I lift a brow faintly, letting out a breath that might be the ghost of a laugh.
“You are really a mother hen, aren’t you?”
“I doubt anyone will dare call you my chick.” She smiles a little shyly and settles beside me on the couch, pulling her legs upunder her. “But yes, I am. Especially when it comes to people I care about.”
The words hit deeper than they should, and I shift slightly, reaching for the plate, my fingers brushing hers briefly as I take it. Her presence feels like a balm I didn’t know I needed — soft, steady, grounding.
I eat slowly, feeling her gaze on me, feeling the quiet stretch between us.
Finally, I glance sideways at her, tilting my head slightly.
“Where’d you learn to handle blood like that?” I ask, voice rough but curious. “Most people would’ve panicked patching up a gash like this.”
Mara lets out a soft breath, wrapping her arms loosely around her knees.
“I grew up watching my father and his men come home with their own fair share of angry injuries,” she says quietly.
“When you’re born to a Cartel leader, you get used to seeing violence — even if your parents try to shelter you from it.”
Her eyes flick away for a moment, thoughtful.
“They wanted to keep me safe, keep me soft… but the truth is, you can’t live in this world without learning where the sharp edges are.”
I go still, listening, letting her voice fill the room. Something inside my chest eases, the tight coil of tension loosening just slightly as her words slip into the silence. I study her profile in the soft light — the delicate curve of her jaw, the faint crease between her brows, the quiet strength in the way she sits there beside me.
She’s stronger than I gave her credit for. Stronger than maybe even she knows. At some point, the plate slips from my hand onto the table, the edge of exhaustion pulling heavier over me.
Her voice hums on—soft, low, like a quiet song weaving through the dark. I allow my eyes to drift closed, even if just for a second, letting the sound of her soothe something raw and restless within me.
When I open them again, the room has gone still.
Mara is curled against my good arm, her head resting lightly on my shoulder, her breath slow and even, her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. I stare down at her, feeling the faintest hitch in my chest.
She’s warm against me — soft, real, here.
For a moment, I let myself relax into it. No demands. No expectations. No words. Just the quiet, just the weight of herleaning into me, just the delicate thread of connection that’s woven itself tighter between us without either of us meaning to pull.
I let my head tip back against the couch, closing my eyes again, allowing myself, just this once, to enjoy the moment without pushing her away. Without reminding myself that it’s temporary. Without bracing for the part where she leaves.
For now, for tonight, I let myself enjoy her warmth.
14
Chapter 13
Zasha