I glare at him. He really has a problem with questions, and his intent stare warns me not to test him right now.
He cuts the distance between us, wrapping his arms around me, and my anger dissipates. “I have no right to feel like this, Vian…” To wish that woman were me.
“God, Zara, mi sol... There’s no reason to ever be jealous.”
He spins me around and cups my face, his eyes softening, locking onto mine as if to say it’s me. He’s all mine. I own him—his entire attention and his whole heart.
“It’s not as straightforward as you thought it would be, huh?”
“No, it’s worse,” I sigh, emotionally all over the place. “I was just jealous of your dead girlfriend.”
“Fiancée.”
“Are you freaking kidding me right now?”
“Fuck, you’re my wife now. I love your fire. Your passion drives me wild.”
“Glad I amuse you,” I snicker, intent on shoving him off, only for my palms to settle on his chest.
“Your bratty attitude.” He kisses me. “Your possessiveness.” He silences my protest with another kiss. “You wanting to take it slow when we both want to move at light speed.”
“Yeah, right toward the wreckage.”
He chuckles and kisses me again. “You know what I did differently this time?”
That piques my interest, and I wait with bated breath.
“I made you my wife. You can’t leave me.”
“Did she?” I whisper, something unpleasant striking my rib cage and making it hard to breathe.
He must have kissed me silly. She died, but it’s not as if it was by choice.
Eyes locked, he seems to relive a painful memory, pure horror staring back at me. “She did, right before she told me she hated me.”
My brows knit together, and suddenly I’m mad for him. It’s clear he loved her deeply, and even clearer that he will never stop loving her despite the hurt she caused him. “What? How?”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “She believed her father. Not me. And I couldn’t make it right.”
So many questions run through my head, and while I try to sort my thoughts into one coherent sentence, he adds, “Let’s go make breakfast.”
It’s in his tone, dripping with resolution, that I know the talk is over.
A part of me rejoices that the perfect woman wasn’t so perfect after all. She caused him a pain I doubt he will ever overcome. But now I am in his life, I have his loyalty, and someday I will bear his child. She will be forgotten.
Will you give up on your fiancé?The question appears out of nowhere, slapping my ignorance.
The tug on my heartstrings gives me the answer. No. So I guess I must accept that he can’t either.
“The staff always has Sundays off. I hope that’s not a problem,” he says as he takes various things from the fridge and places them on the marble island.
In just his boxer briefs, his back ripples with muscle, scattering my focus—sharp angles and deadly force packed into an elegant predator. He looks so mouthwatering it’s a wonder I don’t drool over him.
“Hmm? What?” I say, the question signaling the daze I am in.
He looks at me over his shoulder, smirking and flexing his muscles. Such a showoff.
Something else catches my attention. On his nape is a tattoo—the only thing painted on his body. Some sign I can’t make out, but it tugs at my strings. In a trance, I approach him, trying to figure it out. It’s three lines resembling a lightning strike, but oncloser inspection, I can distinguish two letters: an inclined Z and a V united.
