Page 47 of King of Ashes
I am good at what I do, no false modesty, aware that if I am not doing it, someone else will seize the chance. Yet the cognitive dissonance makes me believe there’s a part of me bothered by what I do. It’s my father’s business. It’s my legacy.
Conrad snaps a picture of the therapist’s information on my laptop, then excuses himself, leaving me alone with this invisible ghost haunting me, taunting me to acknowledge its presence.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy being in Chicago, no ghosts hiding in the shadows, giving me a break.
I call my household manager so the staff can prepare dinner, then return to my desk to finish some paperwork.
In the distance, I hear a jet landing.
He’s here.My heart leaps as if wanting to run down the stairs to welcome him. This reaction is so unsettling that I urge myself to stay still and retain some dignity.
It’s been only three days, but they feel like an eternity—unbearably long, the distance too cruel. Another proof of his innate chokehold on my being.
Shaking my head to clear it, I take my sweet time. I am not some desperate woman ready to jump into her husband’s arms. A bit of caution is always better.
Not even a full minute later—I know because I counted the seconds—my body divorces my brain, and I stride out the door with one goal in mind. Go to him. To rule out insanity would be foolish of me.
At the top of the stairs, I come to an abrupt halt. His smile roots me in place, delight stretching over his face, making his eyes light up just because he sees me.
“There you are,” he whispers, his soft tone laced with nostalgia that makes me question our history.
Could it be that we met in another life? Could it be that he was always meant to be mine? Could it be that we were destined?So many questions swirl in my head with no answers in sight, making me dizzy—but not more than his presence.
I grip the banister to support myself. “Here I am. Did you search for me?” I ask in a playful tone, climbing down the stairs.
“Without a break.”
“You found me now,” I murmur, feeling lightheaded.
He’s right there to catch me just in case. “And I won’t ever let you go.”
A jolt skitters down my spine, revitalizing me. He says the most disturbing and romantic things possible.
I cup his cheek, and he leans into my touch, making the moment feel ethereal. I would have no problem if time froze because I could gaze into his eyes for the rest of my existence.
“Is that so?”
“You know it’s so.”
I can’t deny it, and he places his hand on mine before moving my palm to his mouth, where he presses a sweet kiss that goes straight to my toes, making them curl. I am not just Zara Monroe, the gun heiress, but a woman, his wife. With him, I can just be—no pretense, no power struggle. I can let myself fall, knowing he will catch me. It’s quite liberating.
“Hungry?” I say, my voice sounding unfamiliarly soft.
He gives me an intent look. “Starving.”
For me, and he’s not making a secret of it.
Even with my memory loss, I haven’t forgotten humanity’s basic instincts. I have been propositioned and flirted with, yet not a single man ignited this fever in my body. How unfair that he’s the cause and the cure.
The gradual pace I proposed already seems so distant, but yielding to this man is unavoidable. It’s a sweet dream, especially after years trapped in a merciless nightmare.
“Let’s eat.”
He gestures upstairs, eyes glowing with unrestrained desire. “After you.”
I press my lips together, barely containing my amusement. “Food.”
“Unnecessary,” he groans, eliciting a giggle.
