The rain is coming down hard when you reach the gates of Zara’s estate — the kind of storm that makes the city hide indoors. But not her. Never her.

By the time you step inside, the foyer lights flick on automatically, revealing Zara standing at the base of the marble staircase. Her suit jacket hangs over one shoulder, her blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the stress of a long night carved into her collarbones. Her dark hair is slicked back, still damp from the rain, and her holster is visible beneath her vest — proof she came home only minutes before you.

The moment she sees you, her whole expression cracks from steel to warmth.

“There you are,” she exhales, crossing the space in slow, measured steps. “I was this close to tearing the city apart looking for you.”

Her gloved fingers cup your jaw as if she needs to feel you to believe you’re real. The tension drains from her shoulders, all that legendary ruthlessness dissolving at the sight of the one person she’d burn her empire for.

“No more late walks alone,” she murmurs. “Your safety is worth more than every life I’ve ever taken.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek. Outside, thunder shakes the windows. Inside, Zara pulls you close — not as the most feared woman in the underground… but as your wife, terrified of losing you.