He hugs her back, returning the sentiment, and like so often, I find myself in awe of how her warmth draws people in. But like Bernard, she succeeds at compartmentalizing.
Pulling away, she lifts her chin and takes my hand, her resolve adamant. “We’d better go.”
We eat dinner and sleep overnight on the plane, arriving in Santorini in time for breakfast on Monday morning. Our schedules are out of whack, but we’re both accustomed to adjusting when traveling internationally, so that doesn’t impede our exploration. Nor does our entourage of guards. Zara balks at the lunacy of it, but I remind her that she’s not a no-named assassin anymore, and being a Noire has a variety of perks and downfalls.
Her annoyance dissipates quickly. Perhaps because the apparition of Beck Davis is lurking in the fringes of our honeymoon or because she’s committed to enjoying herself.
She’s immediately in awe of the whitewashed Cycladic architecture, reflecting the golden rays of daylight, with iconic pops of blue. It defines this island, which was why she was willing to sacrifice an eighty-degree tropical escape for the days here in the upper sixties. It’s gratifying to see she’s pleased.
Our first adventure is Akrotiri. It has similar history to Pompeii, having been buried in ash and pumice after a volcanic eruption in 1600 BC, which preserved the culture. It’s a fitting activity to keep our minds busy with the time adjustment, but we are all too happy to retire early to our luxury villa. After treating ourselves to bourbon-soaked Amarena wild cherries by the pool, we spend the evening fucking with the vibrant cobalt of the Aegean Sea as our backdrop.
We sleep in a tangled mess of arms and legs and panting breaths, my cock snug inside her most of the night. Every so often, our bodies rouse us from unconsciousness of their own volition so that by the time our eyes collide, we’re already rocking and panting and halfway to our climaxes.
I wake before her in the morning, heart caught in my throat as I study her even breaths and soft features, marveling that she’s mine.
When she finally stirs, she bends her elbow to boost her head on her hand, the sheet falling away to reveal one perky breast, and she watches me back as I answer emails on my phone, her voice gritty with sleep and lust. “I’ll never tire of seeing you naked in bed with glasses and messy hair. The wife-only view.”
I wonder why no one told me marriage could be like this.
Whole and passionate and serene. Deliverance.
It’s a challenge to leave the villa on Tuesday when it’s plain no destination could trump the inside of Zara’s pussy. She laughs when I tell her that and drags me to Kamari—a black sand beach. There might be a sign of our dynamic adorning her dainty neck, but she holds all the power.
The water is too cold for a swim, so we walk the stretch and eat at a charming tavern on the shore. She’s dressed in all white, like an angel or a piece of this astonishing island. Her eyes roll back when she tastes her lamb chop, and I think I fall in love with her all over again.
She’s so free here.
When she floats down from her sumptuous-cuisine high, she smirks at me. “Are you comatose from the intoxicating butter and garlic smell, infused with the salty sea?”
“It’s all you, darling. I promise to take you away as often as I can.”
Something about that shakes her, another mood swing swooping in to pilfer the liberation that was ours only seconds ago. She glances out to the tranquil water, as if the placid, lapping waves harbor her thoughts. “I didn’t know.” Her face turns back to me, guileless emeralds and pink cheeks. “I’ve been all over the world. I couldn’t even name all the destinations before the end of dinner. But it never felt like this. It’s almost like the beauty was lost because I had no one to share it with. Everything is more vibrant with you.”
I’m touched and alarmed in the same breath, though I can’t pinpoint what exactly is rattling my spirit. Maybe it’s simply the impending KORT ordeal we’ll have to endure, but there’s a ghost of something foreboding skulking around us.
After a moonlit soak in the tub, where I have the pleasure of washing my wife and doting on every inch of her, our night is the same as the last, with us embracing one another like salvation. A baptism of covenants, of pledges and petitions. As if, even without us speaking about everything that lies ahead, our bodies perceive the angst and seek solace. And I tell her again and again that she’s my home, that no matter what we encounter, we’ll face it together because nothing is more important to me than her.
Wednesday morning, we eat breakfast on our balcony and read fromLysistrata—an ancient Greek comedy set during the Peloponnesian War, where disgruntled women go on a sex strike because they’re unhappy with how the men are running things. We laugh until it hurts, and I make her promise not to get any ideas.
By noon, we peel ourselves off the daybed and decide to spend the afternoon shopping. It’s then that I notice she has a burner phone in her purse.
When I tap it with a cocked brow, she sighs and simply says, “In case,” before she sashays to the shower.
My stomach churns with unease.In case what? In case her father reaches out?
Rena knows bits and pieces of Russian, simply from growing up in such close proximity to my business associates. The day of the wedding, she was able to relay at least the sentiment of Zara’s phone call. Of course, we don’t know what was spoken on the other end. All Rena managed was that Zara was sayingsomething was done, presumably her decision to marry me. I’ve tried to ask Zara about it, but she’s brushed past it each time.
With the burner in her possession, the plausibility of her still being tied to her mission looms over me. It’s not a terrible possibility if that’s what KORT wants. If anything, her diligence might encourage them to be less severe with her loyalty test. But selfishly, I want her all to myself. Safe in my arms as the La Lune Noire queen.
Once we’re dressed, we head into the town Fira. The cobbled streets are fringed with enchanting boutiques and shrouded by the spectacular caldera cliffs. The crowds are thin because November is the offseason, so with our eight guards in tow, we hunt for souvenirs for the entire family with ease.
As we weave in and out of the eclectic shops, the energy is so relaxed that I decide to probe for the answers I’m no longer willing to let her evade. “Is your father insisting that you finish your mission?”
“Heinsistedmany things,” she responds, perusing the music store. “None of them pleasant or fatherly or what I wanted to hear, which is why we aren’t speaking.” She examines a bouzouki—a Greek instrument similar to a mandolin. “We should get one for Remy. But probably Jax and Rena too. Maybe even Maddox.”
All of them would love that, and the fact that she knows them warms me nearly enough to let her off the hook.Nearly.
“But you brought the burner that he contacts you on.”
