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“Do you want bold or romantic or wild and free?”
I stare at the display. I don’t fucking know.
Every bouquet looks like a gamble. None of them look like her. Until my eyes land on a small bunch of wildflowers tucked off to the side.
Soft purples, and delicate whites. A few green sprigs that look like they belong in a fairytale meadow just like Mara.
“I’ll take that one,” I say. Then I hesitate.
My heart pounds harder than it should — harder than it ever has before an op.
“Actually—” I glance at the others. “Bag up all of them.”
The girl stares. “All?”
I nod. “Yes. Every single arrangement you have ready. And have them delivered to this address tomorrow morning.”
I hand her a card.
She takes it like it might bite her, blinking. “Sir… are you sure?”
“No.”
But I do it anyway.
When I get home, I stand outside our bedroom door like a goddamn idiot. The wildflower bouquet in my hand feels heavier than it should.
For fuck sakes, I’ve handled explosives with less hesitation. Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I grab the door handle and open the door.
21
Chapter 18
Xiomara
The steam drifts out behind me in lazy swirls as I step from the bathroom into the bedroom’s cool air, towel wrapped tight around me.
Warm water clings to my skin, my hair damp and curling at the ends as I rub it gently with another towel. The lights are dim, the only sound the soft dripping of the shower and the rhythmic beat of my own heart.
I’m not expecting him home for hours. So, when the bedroom door creaks open—
I freeze.
The towel slips slightly, but I don’t reach to fix it.
My gaze snaps toward the door as it swings fully open. Zasha stands there, holding wildflowers in one hand, his eyes locked on me. Not in the way he usually looks at me—guarded, composed, unreadable.
No, this look is something else entirely. Like I’ve undone him just by existing.
Like I’m standing at the center of something he can’t resist anymore. Then he reaches behind him and quietly closes the door. The soft click echoes in my chest like a countdown.
I clutch the towel tighter, suddenly breathless. Not from fear, but from anticipation because the way he’s looking at me…
It’s not polite. It’s not restrained.
It’s like something in him has snapped. And somehow, I know—whatever happens next won’t be careful.
Zasha crosses the room in slow, purposeful strides, eyes locked on me the entire time.