The wife he bought

chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Zara's POV

He laughed. Actual laughter, quiet and rusty, like he hadn’t used it in years. “You’re saying I’m unrealistic?” he asked me

“I’m saying you’re lucky I pause my movies for you.” I shot at him.

The bathroom felt smaller. Or he felt closer. The cold aura he wore for the world was gone, and underneath was that warmth I’d only seen in flashes — when he thought no one was watching.

He got quiet. “You remind me of her. Before.”

I knew who _her_ was. “Your ex?” I asked wanting to confirm.

“Claudia.” He said the name like it was a splinter. “She used to patch me up too. Before she… traded up.”

I kept my eyes on the bandage. “You never talk about her.”

“Nothing to say. She married my father six months after my mother died.”

The air left my lungs. I did know that story, just not from him. The city knew. The Voss family scandal. Old Voss taking his son’s girlfriend as his new wife before the funeral flowers wilted.

“I’m sorry,” I said. It was useless.

Damien shrugged. The movement pulled at his cut and he made a sound. “Don’t be. Taught me a lot. About loyalty. About what people do when they’re hungry.” he told me.

“How did it… happen?” I asked before I could stop myself. “You and her. Then him and her.”

He studied me for a long time. Then, like he was stepping off a ledge: “She didn’t know. Not at first.”

That wasn’t what I expected.

“Claudia met me in college. I wasn’t ‘Damien Voss’ there. Just Damien. No family business, no last name that meant anything. She fell for the guy who took her to diners and carried her books.” He almost smiled. “She met my father at a charity gala. I brought her. He was… charming. Powerful. And she didn’t know he was my father. I’d never told her my last name. Stupid. I wanted one thing that wasn’t poisoned by being a Voss.”

He looked at his hands. My work on his knuckles.

“After my mom died, everything fell apart. I was gone for three weeks handling… business. Came home. Found them. Not in bed — worse. At the kitchen table. Planning a wedding. She thought she’d been dating two different men. She wasn’t two-timing. She was just caught between a son who lied by omission and a father who lied for sport.” He met my eyes. “He married her two weeks later. To hurt me. To prove he could take anything I had.”

“God, Damien.” I let out, hand to my mouth.

“Yeah.” He leaned his head back. “So now you know. Why I don’t let people in. Why I don’t do warm. Last time I did, my father wore it like a trophy.”

I didn’t have words. So I did the only thing I could. I finished the bandage, then sat on the floor next to the tub, shoulder to his knee. Not touching. Just there.

“You let me in tonight,” I said finally.

He was quiet. Then: “You didn’t give me a choice.” he said.

“Liar. You could’ve thrown me out.” I said to him.

Another of those rusty laughs. “Maybe I’m tired of the cold.” I heard him say

We stayed like that until the sky started to brighten up. No more talking. No more questions. Just a mafia guy with a cut on his head and a girl who didn’t listen when he told her to go away.

For the first time, he didn’t tell me to leave again.

The gray dawn crept through the blinds and turned the bathroom quiet.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. One minute I was holding gauze to Damien’s head, listening to him talk about Claudia and Old Voss, and the next my cheek was on his knee. His trouser smelled like rain and blood and whatever expensive soap he uses. Safe. Which is stupid, because nothing about Damien Voss is safe.

I should’ve gotten up. Should’ve remembered he’s the guy who makes men disappear over “shipping issues.” Remembered that I was just something he bought. But his hand was resting near mine,, bandaged by me, and the cold aura he wears for the whole world was gone. Underneath, he was just… tired. Just warm. A bit childish too.

I must’ve drifted off, because suddenly I’m being lifted. I mumble something about the movie I paused. His arms are solid. Careful. Like I’m not something he would depose.

He lays me down. His bed smells like him. I hear the rustle of a blanket — heavy, dark — and then it’s being tucked around my shoulders. Gently. The last thing I expect from a man who took a crowbar to the head and drove himself home.

I keep my eyes closed. If I open them, the spell breaks. If I open them, he’ll remember to be cold again. Things go back to normal. I didn't want normal. Not anymore.

Then I felt it. Barely there. His lips, just a breath against my temple. Not demanding. Not claiming. Like he knows how to. A thank-you, maybe. Or an apology. Or something he doesn’t have words for yet.

“Don’t,” I want to say. “Don’t be warm if you’re going to ice me out tomorrow.”

But I’m asleep before I can. And for once, Damien doesn’t tell me to leave He felt human to me.