Sitting shoulder to shoulder in the cramped taxi on our way to the church, she couldn't help but notice his scent.
It was a blend of mint-flavored aftershave with a subtle hint of tobacco. I knew it well—having worked with many high-powered clients at Ember Corp, she was familiar with how they smelled. Her heart froze when she remembered that name again. Ember Corp.
She smelled like vanilla. Warm, soothing, and utterly addictive—so much more pleasant than the overwhelming perfume of countless women whose strong fragrances always irritated his nose.
He had this strange urge to talk to her. For the first time, a woman seemed genuinely aloof around him—not eager to jump into his bed at the first chance, not trying to snap a photo or get his number. All she wanted was a date to her wedding, and now I was curious about her reasons.
"Trying to make an ex jealous?" he asked, leaning back slightly. He almost considered tapping her thigh to get her attention, but decided against it—the seat was already hot enough for him.
Novaria turned to him with a sigh. "No," she replied simply.
He simply nodded. "So, there is an ex?" he asked again, briefly turning away from her.
"Hell yes! And he's marrying my twin sister," she shot back, and when she saw his brow raise in surprise, she let out a laugh.
"Yeah, I'm talking some biblical Rachel and Leah kind of stuff," she continued.
Zion was amused by her story. He was pretty sure she'd been told that story a long time ago and had forgotten that Rachel and Leah weren't actually twins.
"Rachel and Leah weren't twins," he pointed out. When he turned back to her and caught the look on her face, he wished, just for a moment, that he could find it in himself to laugh.
Novaria looked thoughtful. She had, in fact, believed they were twin sisters. "Really?"
"Absolutely," he confirmed.
But she continued to doubt him, evident in the way her eyes narrowed slightly at him.
This act reminded him of his mother, Elvira Ashcroft. He saw her in the way Novaria stared—her nose able to sniff out lies from anyone, whether man or wolf.
It was one of the qualities that kept their pack strong—feared and resourceful. While his father was the physical strength and the pillar of the pack, his mother was the brains and the powerhouse. Elvira made the decisions, and Zachary enforced them.
"Doesn't it hurt you? The betrayal?" he pressed gently.
For a brief moment, a flicker of pain flashed across her eyes. But as quickly as it appeared, she blinked it away, replaced by a smile so bright and genuine that it felt almost like a shield.
He wondered if he had imagined the flicker in her eyes. Or perhaps she was just a hell of an actress. Either way, he found himself genuinely interested in her story.
She sighed, as if she had dwelled on the hurt for so long that now she felt numb. Still, she feared that if she watched Hunter speak the words she'd been waiting to hear for more than half her life—words to his sister—she might not be able to bear it. That was the only reason she had insisted on arriving later to the wedding. She could endure the celebration later at night, but the exchange of vows and rings? That she couldn't face.
"Does it hurt? Boy, I've cried so much, I think I have no tears left," she said quietly. "I can't keep doing that. I need to move on. I can't keep dwelling on what I can't change."
Simple. Brave. Forgiving. Zion took note. Three qualities he knew he was light years away from possessing. He saw her quickly turn away from him.
'Hold her hand, she needs you,' he heard Gunther's voice echo in his mind. Slowly, he reached out to cover her hand, but midair, he drew it back. "This is happening too fast," he muttered under his breath.
She turned to him and asked, "Did you say something?"
Before he could reply, the driver spoke instead. "The cathedral, ma'am."
"Took us long enough," she muttered, a touch of impatience in her voice.
He caught sight of her clenched fists digging into her thighs, the tension in her body undeniable. He observed her again—veins prominent on her arms, the faint creases etched into her forehead, beads of sweat gathering but refusing to fall.
She was hurt. No matter how fiercely she tried to conceal it, it was written all over her. Torn inside, just like him. And he understood—because he, too, was a casualty of this world, fractured and worn by its relentless weight.
After paying the driver, she reached for the door handle and turned to him. "Remember, stay close to me and don't say a word. I do the talking. You just smile, shake hands, and kiss my forehead when necessary." She turned away and opened the door. Then, a thought suddenly crossed her mind, and she looked back at him. "Note. I said when necessary."
Her emphasis on the last two words made him scoff inwardly.
If he truly wanted to, he would kiss her forehead—every part of her, in fact—sooner rather than later. Only if he wanted to; and he knew he did. To get the answers to the questions swirling in his mind, he would have to reach out and touch her.
The urge to hold her was strange to him—something he'd never expected to feel. He hated physical contact, plain and simple. So why now, with her, did that instinct pull at him so strongly? Maybe it was because Gunther had already warmed up to her.
WARMED UP.
Not just a casual acceptance, but acknowledgment—he'd even accepted her as his mate. That was impossible, he told himself. She was a human female, and not just that—she was crazy. The royal house of Ashcroft would mock him endlessly if they knew. They'd laugh at the very idea.
Then she stood close, and suddenly, she stretched out her hand.
His brow lifted in confusion. Before he could say anything, she sighed and spoke. "As far as everyone in here is concerned, we've been friends for a long time, and now we're about to take our relationship to the next level."
His eyes widened in disbelief. What did she just say? Did she really mean…?
She noticed the stunned look on his face and burst out laughing. "It's just for tonight," she said, amusement dancing in her eyes. "No one's expecting you to propose or anything. Although, Navira might just pass out from jealousy." Her smile softened as she took Zion's arm and linked hers with his.
His eyes widened in disbelief at her words—the nerve of her. Tensing against her hold, he remained silent as they walked hand in hand into the church.
"Wait!" she suddenly exclaimed.
He rolled his eyes, frowning as he looked down at her. "What is it now?"
She looked up at him, her expression serious. "We have to give ourselves stage names," she whispered.
Is she joking? When he stared at her eyes—dead serious. No, she wasn't joking. He glanced over her, shaking his head in disbelief. What is wrong with this woman? "Stage what?"
"Just give me a name, just in case I need your attention at any time," she explained.
He scoffed. "You've strapped me to you—I won't be leaving anytime soon."
Her brows furrowed, doubt flickering across her face. She didn't believe him. "Just in case you decide to wander off. Men, they can never be trusted to stay put," she added with a hint of malice in her voice.
He sighed, glancing ahead, already eager for all of this to be over. "Zion."
She shot him a sharp look. "What kind of name is that?" she snapped, tearing her gaze away.
Before he could respond, another woman approached them, her wide smile directed at the woman standing by his side.
Suddenly, with remarkable agility, Novaria released their arms and pulled her into a warm embrace. "Zette!"
Suzette mumbled softly against Novaria's shoulder, "The wedding is almost over. You came late."
As Novaria pulled back, she winked playfully. "Believe me, I am just in time."
They both burst into laughter, the sound light and genuine.
Suzette's gaze drifted over to Zion, who met her eyes with a blank, unreadable expression.
"Who's this?" she asked, a gentle smile forming as she looked at Zion.
Without warning, Novaria instinctively gripped his arm, the action subtle but noticeable. Zion pasted a polite smile onto his face, trying not to show his discomfort.
"This is Zion. Zion, this is my best friend, Suzette," Novaria introduced.
Suzette extended her hand with a warm smile.
Zion hesitated for a moment, then forced himself to return the gesture. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, shaking it briefly, keeping his expression neutral.
Their palms locked in a brief, tentative clasp. He wished for the sake of his sanity that he'd feel the same spark he felt when his hands touched Novaria's.
It would reassure him that he was only flustered by her casual approach. That the electric jolt racing through his veins was simply a reaction to her proximity. That the concept of anonymity—of remaining unknown—was what truly fascinated him.
He waited. No fire. No sparks.
Reluctantly, he drew his hand back. His gaze fell on Novaria's face on impulse. She appeared distant, her expression unreadable. His heart ached to reach out to her, to bridge the growing distance. He longed for her to speak, to break the silence that settled between them.