“I’m healed all right. The only thing that hurts is my fucking cock,” he groans, pressing me deeper onto his steel-hard length, sending a delicious shiver down my back.
I burst into laughter. He has a dramatic streak that amuses me like nothing else.
Locking my arms around his neck, I play with the ends of his hair, savoring the serenity of the moment. “You know what the doctor said…”
“What does he know,” he grumbles.
It takes everything in me to scold my features into neutral. “Ten years of school. Constantly learning. The man saved you.”
“Yeah, whatever, but now you’re killing me by not giving me access to my pussy.” He catches my lower lip between his teeth and nips it, gliding his tongue across the afflicted skin.
A flirtatious smile teases my lips, and I tilt my head, loving to play with danger because he makes it burn so good. “Yours, huh?”
Instantly, the playfulness disappears, and he curls his hand around my throat, turning my insides combustible. One touch would light the match, and I’d burn up in the flames of passion.
“Whose are you?”
“You know the answer,” I murmur.
“Tell me again. I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life.”
While we’re confident in our love, the years apart and everything that happened affected us. I am certain that together we’ll heal
I brush my nose against his, whispering above his lips. “Yours. A lifetime yours.”
“Not fucking enough.”
He drags me to his mouth by the nape of my neck, kissing me with so much ardor it steals the breath from my lungs while he pours something else into them—nectar, the elixir of gods—making me feel immortal.
They could arrive any moment, but I am too dazed to care as I lean on his muscular body, my safe cocoon.
“I’ll change my name to just Zara Giancana.”
His eyes soften, his facial expression one of pure bliss. “You don’t have to,” he says reverently, rubbing his thumb along my chin.
His words only strengthen my decision.
“I’m your wife. Your woman. You’re my husband. My man. The one I trust completely. The only one making me feel safe. The one I will love and spend the rest of my life with.”
His love for me will never cease to ground and lift me up in equal measure––silent and lethal occasionally and loud and unbending most of the time.
I palm his chest, his heart responding to my touch by pumping faster. “This is my gift to you.”
“I already have all I’ve ever wished for,” he says contentedly.
But changing my name symbolizes that I believe him. He didn’t drag my father from the pedestal I put him on; my father’s actions ensured that.
We had a lot of talks about the past, flitting through everything. One night I asked him to recount our story, and I fell asleep with a dreamy smile stitched on my face. I don’t need to have my memories restored to verify the veracity of his words. I simply want to share them with him.
“Are you okay with me going to the therapist?” I ask, unsure if it’s the right decision, especially now. We must deal with a traitor and carve out my path as Underboss. I am pregnant, and he’s still recovering. It feels like the wrong time.
He rolls me to the side, his body oozing so much warmth that it blankets me in a homelike feeling.
“I’ll never stop you from pursuing anything you wish. Deep down, I will always fear something happening and that I will lose you. The thought destroys me, but that’s my issue to overcome, not yours.”
The thing is, we don’t know the mysteries of my brain—whether that was an isolated incident or a precursor to something worse. That’s another reason I want to talk to the therapist: to be proactive and prepare ourselves.
I’ve started writing a diary just in case—letters that will go to him if something irreparable befalls me.
