Chapter 7: Unexpected
By the time we arrived at the house, I had gone from flustered to mildly sulking in Zevren's arms. He carried me all the way inside like I weighed nothing, completely ignoring my weak protests.
The driver opened the front door and Zevren stepped through without missing a beat. The soft click of his shoes echoed through the glassy, pristine interior. I caught the faint scent of lavender and cedarwood—his cologne, mingled with the familiar warmth of home.
"Put me down," I muttered again, but my voice had lost its edge.
"You're not walking until I say you can," he said simply, kicking the door closed behind him. "You've been patching yourself up alone for years. Not anymore."
I rolled my eyes. "Possessive much?"
He glanced down at me, one brow slightly raised. "Fiancé privilege."
I didn't dignify that with a response. Not when the way he said fiancé made something flutter stupidly in my chest.
He finally set me down gently on the sofa, his hands brushing against my waist as he made sure I was seated properly. I winced slightly as I leaned back, the dull ache on my side reminding me I wasn't fully healed yet.
Zevren stood back and looked at me, arms crossed. "Stay. I'll get your medicine and food."
"I can get it myself," I said, but he was already walking away toward the kitchen like he didn't hear me.
I sank deeper into the cushions with a sigh.
This was… new. Zevren showing up out of nowhere. Carrying me. Taking care of me. It was all so unlike the cold, distant man I'd agreed to marry for strategic convenience.
But the way he moved around the house now—casual, comfortable, like he belonged here with me—it stirred something unfamiliar in my chest.
Maybe, just maybe, this arrangement wasn't going to be as one-sided as I'd thought.
First Person POV – Zaira
Dinner was… quiet. Surprisingly so.
We ate in the dining room—just the two of us, with warm food that I hadn't realized I'd been craving until the first bite. Zevren didn't say much, but he didn't need to. His presence alone, steady and grounding, did most of the talking. He kept glancing at me, subtly checking if I was eating enough or flinching from pain. I pretended not to notice.
When I pushed my plate away, full but drained, he stood up and walked over.
"I can walk," I said automatically.
"Not a chance," he replied without pause, bending down again and lifting me into his arms like it was second nature.
"Zevren—"
"You're stubborn, I get it," he said calmly. "But tonight, I win."
I gave up with a tired sigh, resting my cheek against his shoulder. His suit jacket felt cool under my skin, but the warmth of him underneath bled through, oddly soothing.
We passed the hallway in silence, the lights dimmed low, casting soft golden shadows across the sleek modern walls. Gigi barked once from her room, then went quiet again.
And then—
As he pushed open the door to the bedroom with his foot, I caught sight of something that made my breath hitch.
The room wasn't just his anymore.
My suitcase was there, sure—but so was a small table on my side of the bed, with a glass of water, a folded throw blanket, and... a bouquet of gardenias in a slender vase. White and delicate. My favorite.
"You did this?" I murmured, looking up at him.
He laid me gently down onto the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"I knew you wouldn't stop working," he said quietly. "So I wanted you to have at least one place to breathe."
Something swelled in my chest—something warm and sharp and terrifying all at once. I should've said something snarky, something detached. But I didn't.
Instead, I watched as he began removing his coat, draping it neatly on the chair by the window. His movements were slow, like he wasn't in a rush to leave.
He turned to me.
"I'll stay here tonight," he said, voice low. "In case the pain comes back."
"You don't have to," I said, already shifting under the covers, heart racing.
"I know."
He slipped onto his side of the bed without another word. For a few moments, we lay in silence, facing away from each other.
Then, in the quiet—
"You scared me," he whispered.
I turned slightly, eyes wide. "What?"
He didn't look at me. "When you didn't text back right away… When I found out you were hurt. I know we're just… figuring this out. But still."
I reached over without thinking, fingers brushing against his under the blanket.
"I'm okay now," I said softly.
His hand turned and closed around mine, firm and steady.
And in the stillness of the night, tangled in uncertain feelings and unspoken truths, I realized something quietly terrifying.
I didn't want this arrangement to end.
His fingers wrapped around mine—warm, steady, grounding.
And then, without a word, he brought my hand up from beneath the covers and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles. My breath caught in my throat.
I turned away quickly, trying to hide the heat creeping into my cheeks. Embarrassment twisted through me. Why was my heart beating like this? It's just Zevren. My fiancé. My… almost-stranger. My familiar shadow.
Before I could collect myself, I felt his hand again—this time, on my head. Gently, reverently, he brushed a strand of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
I looked back at him.
And for one still moment, we just… stared.
His eyes weren't cold tonight. They were softer, searching. No mask, no walls. Just a man looking at the woman fate had tied him to—perhaps reluctantly at first, but now?
Now, something was different.
We didn't speak.
We didn't need to.
Our heads tilted, drawn in slowly like gravity had a say in this too. The space between us disappeared—breath shared, lashes lowered, hearts pounding.
And then—
We kissed.
It wasn't urgent. It wasn't wild.
It was slow. Careful. Like we were both trying to memorize the shape of each other's mouths. Like we were trying to make sense of this strange, fragile thing blooming in the quiet.
When we finally pulled apart, just an inch, I could still feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
"I…" I whispered, breathless.
He didn't say anything. He just touched my cheek, thumb stroking lightly.
And I didn't pull away.
Because maybe… I didn't want to.
Then we kissed again.
This time deeper, slower, as though we had crossed a line we couldn't uncross—and neither of us wanted to.
He shifted, bracing himself as he hovered above me, one hand cradling the side of my face. I instinctively rested my hands around his neck, fingers threading into his hair as our lips moved in sync, breathing each other in.
But pain bloomed faintly in my side, and I winced softly against his mouth.
He immediately pulled back, concern flickering in his eyes.
"Take it easy," I murmured, catching my breath. "I'm still in pain."
He nodded once, eyes never leaving mine. Then, with a slow grace, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it aside.
I blinked.
It was the first time I truly saw him like this—his lean muscles and sculpted abs, carved like stone but softened by the warm amber light in the room. I hadn't gotten the chance to admire them the first night. Now, I couldn't look away.
"I'll be gentle," he said, voice low and steady.
Then he leaned down and kissed me again—slow, careful, as though every motion was a question and I was the answer.
And for once, I didn't overthink. I didn't run. I just let myself feel.
Let myself be his.
At least for tonight.