The wife he bought

chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Zara's POV

The hospital smells like bleach and bad coffee. I hated it instantly.

Damien doesn’t ask. He just walks in like he owns the place — because he probably does — and tells the receptionist we have an appointment with Dr. Kessler. The best hematologist in the state, apparently. On his payroll, obviously.

I want to fight him on it. I want to say I don’t need his money or his doctors or his obsession. But I’m out of pills. And I’m tired. And when I stood up this morning, the room went black for three seconds.

So I followed him.

Dr. Kessler is a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and zero patience for bullshit. She takes one look at my chart, one look at Damien looming in the doorway, and says, “You. Out. This is between me and my patient.”

Damien blinks. Nobody tells Damien Voss to leave.

“Now,” she adds.

He looks at me. I shrug. “You heard her.”

He leaves. But he doesn’t go far. I can see his shadow through the frosted glass, pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a caged animal.

That’s the first change I notice. Damien Voss doesn’t pace. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t “_worry_”. He’s ice. He’s control.

He’s doesn't seem to be in control right now.

Dr. Kessler runs bloodwork. She checks my bruises — the ones on my wrist, my ribs, the constellation of tiny red dots on my legs I told Damien was a reaction. She doesn’t lecture. She just says, “Your counts are critical, Zara. You need transfusions twice a week until we find a donor. And we need to talk transplant.”

“Don’t have a donor,” I said “Don’t have money either.”

“You have him,” she says, nodding at the door.

I laugh. It sounds hollow. “He bought me for a year. Not a lifetime.” I thought to myself

“Maybe you should ask him, his your husband isn't he.” she said. I didn't say a word to her.

When we walk out, Damien was there. Immediately. Like a robot. His eyes goes to my face, then my hands, like he’s finding damage.

“Well?” he asks. No bark. No order. Just… a question. Rough around the edges.

“Transfusions. Twice a week. Maybe a transplant if we find a donor.” the doctor saidl. “Happy? You get to keep your asset alive a little longer.” I shot at him.

He doesn’t rise to it. He just nods once and puts a hand behind my back as we walked to the car. It’s barely a touch. It burns.

That’s the second change. He touches me now. Not grabbing. Not possessive. Guiding. Like he’s afraid I’ll fall over if he doesn’t.

The ride home was silent. But was not his usual silence. He wasn't cold anymore. Was thick. Heavy.

I caught him watching me in the rearview mirror. Three times.

When we got back, I expected him to go to his room or study. To disappear into work and shipping routes and Roman. But He doesn’t.

He makes tea. Him. Damien Voss. In the kitchen. He doesn’t know where the honey is, so I tell him. He listens.

“Starting today, Enzo drives you to every appointment,” he says, setting the mug in front of me. “Kessler says you can’t be alone after transfusions.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” I said to him

“It’s not up for debate.” Then, quieter: “Please.”

I stare at him. Damien doesn’t say please.

That’s the third change. The first real moment of him being vulnerable. Not the bloodied, half-conscious man from two weeks ago. This is worse. This is him choosing to lower the armor.

“Why do you care?” I asked again. I asked him at 4 AM with my head on his knee. I’m asking now in daylight.

He doesn’t answer. He just sits across from me and drinks black coffee. But he stays.

And that becomes the new normal.

He’s home for dinner. He asks if I took my meds — not like an order, like a check-in. He shows up at the hospital. Doesn’t come in, but he’s in the waiting room every Tuesday and Friday, reading contracts he’s not actually reading. I see him through the door.

I started noticing other things. He memorized my transfusion schedule. He stocks the fridge with the ginger chews Kessler said help with nausea. He fights with Old Voss on the phone and hangs up fast when I walk in.

One night I found him asleep on the couch in his study.. He had been reading, I guess. A book was open on his chest. “_The Count of Monte Cristo_.” When I nudged him awake, he said he “lost track of time.”

Liar. He was keeping an eye on me, making sure I was still breathing. His study was close to my room.

I should be terrified. I was sold to a mafia boss. I should be planning my escape.

Instead, I’m learning him. The way his jaw moves when he’s worried but won’t say it. The way he has exactly one smile and it’s only for me, and how rusty the smile was from disuse. The way he hates the word “weak” but let me see him bleed.

Friendship formed in the gaps between the doctor’s visits and his late-night phone calls. It’s stupid. We watch movies. He hates romcoms but suffers through them because I pause them every time he gets a text. We eat cereal at midnight when I can’t sleep after the steroids. He tells me about his mom — not the tragedy, the small stuff.. That she hated his father’s cigars. That she liked gardens. One reason he had a garden behind his mansion where we held our wedding.

I toldl him about the auction. About my life. About my father’s debt and my own math. He stays very still, then says, “If I’d known, I would’ve bought the debt. Not you.”

“That’s not better,” I'd say

“I know,” he said. “But it’s true.”

Emotional intimacy is a worse drug than the transfusions I get. It’s in the way he hands me a blanket without me asking. It’s in the way I stopped flinching when he reaches for me. It’s in the way we don’t call this whatever it is, because naming it makes it real, and real things dies.

Three weeks after the hospital, we were on the balcony. It’s raining. I’m supposed to be resting but the air felt good. He’s behind me, not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat from him.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“You look alive today,” he'd say. Simple. Like it’s an answer.

I turned. He’s not wearing his cold, armor. He’s not wearing anything but a white t-shirt and the scar on his hairline from Roman’s crowbar. His eyes are gray and unguarded and fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the world that wasn't a threat.

“Dangerous,” I whispered. “You looking at me like that.”

“Dangerous for who?” he said

“Both of us.”

He steps closer. One step. That’s all it takes. I could see the movements on his jaw, the dark lashes I never noticed before. He smells like rain and that soap. Safe.

“Zara,” he says. Just my name. Like it hurts.

I should step back. I should remember Claudia. I should remember I’m dying and he’s a Voss and this ends with blood.

I don’t. I didn't.

I went up on my toes. Or maybe he bends. Doesn’t matter.

The first kiss wasn't cold. It’s not possession. It’s a question. Soft, careful, like he’s asking permission with his mouth. I answer it. My hands find his shirt. His hands, healed, frame my face like I’m made of glass.

We don’t deepen it. We don’t need to. It’s a first since our wedding. A line crossed. A promise neither of us is ready to say out loud.

When we pulled back, his forehead rests against mine. We were both breathing too hard.

“Well,” I said, voice shaking. “That complicates the contract.”

He laughs. That rusty, rare sound. “f**k the contract.”

And for the first time since the auction, I believed he meant it.

The rain kept falling. My counts are still critical. His father is still a monster and Roman is still out there.

But for now, Damien’s hands were warm. And they’re not letting go. Not that I want it to.