I hear her sharp intake of breath as she enters.
“Having fun, I see,” she says, and I turn around, brushing invisible lint from the shitty coveralls she gave me. From her heated gaze, she likes it. Fuck, it does things to me knowing how attracted she is to me.
She plants her hands on her waist, genuine interest etched into her expression. “Tell me, how is it possible for you to be this good?”
“Have a date with me tonight,” I propose, plastering a grin on my face.
She tilts her head and taps her chin in a thinking pose. “And what will it cost me for you to help my men improve?”
“Nothing.”
Her brows furrow, the note of surprise clear in her voice. “Nothing?”
No, by then she will be mine. I only need a few more weeks.
Fuck if I am not in awe of her right now. Even if it pisses her off that I overpowered her men, she’s smart and strategic. Instead of taking it as an insult, she sees an opportunity to improve. That’s why she got this far. I might have given her a push, but she did it herself.
“You’re my wife, Zara. I want you to succeed in everything you desire. It would be my honor and pleasure to help you reach your goals.”
The sincerity behind my words registers, and she gulps, clearly taken aback. “Thank you.”
Our eyes lock, and everything else vanishes. For a few moments, it’s just us, like it has always been. A gravitational force pulls us together, two objects drawn in, unaware of the fatal collision awaiting. The violent clash will destroy the worldwe know and birth a new one. Fighting would be futile. She will see it, and give in.
“Let’s go to Chicago,” she says, turning around and indicating for me to follow.
One day, she’ll call it home. But that day is not today.
On our way to the locker room, she tells Conrad, “Schedule a meeting with the team next week.”
That gives me hope she plans to stay more than one night. A deal is a deal, and she will honor her word. Having her is what matters, not whether she wants it or because I forced her hand.
As Conrad passes me, his face betrays nothing, but he gives an imperceptible nod my way.
Inside the locker room, I take off the gear, and she gasps. Stopping, I catch my back in the mirror. My skin is immaculate, not riddled with reddish spots that would turn purple in the following days. Fake or not, I wouldn’t have accepted getting shot. Simulation or not, you treat it as if your life depends on survival. In our line of work, that will get tested sooner rather than later.
Warmth spreads through me as she palms my cheek, gently stroking the reddish spot where her man hit me.
“I survived, wife. Your men are in worse shape,” I say with a hint of arrogance to distract her from worrying more. That might threaten our time together.
I am so fucking exhausted from tiptoeing around her brain, but the warnings of three different doctors have haunted me. Another crisis might do irreparable damage. She could dissociate to the point of mental regression.
When she first approached me, I asked them how I should proceed, and I got three different opinions.
That maybe she’s ready to face what happened.
That I must be very careful.
That I should not even consider it.
But they agreed it was a good sign that she sought me out. I latched onto the opportunity as if it were the difference between life and death.
“You’re caring, wife.”
“Don’t break my heart, okay?”
Her trusting me with her vulnerability resurrects my comatose being.
I bring our foreheads together. “I would rather kill myself than do that. But if the devil takes my mind and I somehow do, then kill me.”
