She is a woman to be survived.
And that should terrify me.
Because Zara is power and I crave her. I love her, despite myself and perhaps because of it, and I've stopped caring whether this is right or wrong.
She’s perfect for me in ways that should terrify me but only leave me hungry for more. Zara is darkness wrapped in silk, a cruel and cunning creature who doesn’t just survive. She thrives. She’s vicious when she needs to be, relentless when she wants something, and utterly unapologetic about anything, no matter how dark it is.
It’s why we work.
She doesn’t fear the evil in me because the darkness inside her is even blacker than mine. She doesn’t hesitate to play dirty, to cut throats and burn bridges if that gets her what she needs or wants. Her lack of morals matches mine, and I know without a doubt she’d do whatever it took to stop me if I ever threatened her.
But she’s also more than that. She’s an enchantress, her power vast and unknowable, an untamed force I’ve barely begun to comprehend. I’ve seen her weave illusions so real they could distort minds and summon storms with the flick of her wrist. Her magic pulses through me now we’re bound by the blood weave and I want more of it. I want to use it and know it and consume it, to uncover every depth and every secret buried inside her.
Zara insists she doesn’t know the extent of her powers and I’m inclined to believe her. She’s more than capable of lying to me, but I don’t think it’s in her interests. The girl wants to discover what she’s capable of, and she knows I’ll help her reach her full potential. I’ll protect her and guide her, soothe and calm her, and teach her thecontrol she’s so desperately lacking.
In truth, I’m surprised how well our magic merges and the balance we’ve found is a rare and precious thing. She’s fire to my fury, and I’m the control that contains her chaos. Zara burns with a raw, untamed power that is as beautiful as it is destructive, and I’m the steadying force that channels her magic into something stoppable.
We’re a perfect, volatile equilibrium and she needs my discipline. She completes me in ways I didn’t know I needed, and in her, I see a reflection of the darkness and brilliance I carry in myself.
But more than that, she gives me a purpose. A reason. A meaning I haven’t felt in years. I’m not just a weapon, I’m her weapon. Her shield and her strength too, and that makes me dangerous in ways we’ve yet to discover.
“I don’t deserve you, Zara.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her laughter dies, her eyes snapping to mine, sharp and assessing.
“What was that?”
“You heard,” I mutter, my thumb brushing over her lower lip.
She bites the pad of my thumb, her teeth scraping the sensitive skin, and I growl low in my throat. Her grin is sharp and feral, as if she can taste the vulnerability in my words. Zara always manages to take the pieces of me I keep hidden and drag them into the light, unapologetic and merciless, and strangely, I feel better for it.
“I think you’re forgetting something,” she says, her voice honeyed venom. “I chose you, Kade. All of you.”
Her fingers trail over my chest, searing through the fabric of my shirt. She’s always warm, like there’s fire running just beneath her skin, and when she touches me, it ignites something deeper inside me.
“So don’t talk to me about what you do or don’t deserve. You’re mine, just as much as I’m yours.”
The air between us singes, not with silence or hesitation, but with the profound unspoken understanding that simmers between us.
I tighten my grip on her waist, dragging her against me so our bodies align. “You’re not just mine, kitten. You’re my everything.”
“I know,” she whispers, unusually vulnerable.
Her confession lingers, her walls slipping for that one precious moment before she pushes them back into place with a sharp inhale. She steps out of my hold, and the absence of her touch is like losing a piece of myself. The loss is sharp, a blade of cold reality that reminds me of how fleeting these glimpses of her true self can be. I let her go, knowing Zara will always retreat when she feels too exposed, and that pushing her now would only drive her further away.
She’ll come back to me and, in time, she’ll learn to trust me.
I’ll force her to if she doesn’t come around of her own accord.
“We should check the wards,” she says, her tone brisk as she moves toward the window. “They’ve been temperamental since Galen’s death.”
I follow her as her movements shift from playful to focused. Zara’s learning to command a room instead of occupying it, her presence demanding attention even when she’s silent. Her hand hovers over the glass, her fingers splayed as her magic hums in the air, and her nose crinkles in a way that would be adorable if it didn’t mean she was worried.
“They’re unsettled,” she murmurs. “Galen’s death caused as many problems as it fixed.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, her lips pressing into a thin line.
