Chapter 96
Zander POV
The anxiety is killing me.
I've never been more nervous in my life.
I literally feel weak.
I've been feeling like this all month.
It's been a year since we got together—the happiest year of my life. I walk into the apartment, and I don't even remember when it happened, but one day I just realized I'd moved in. Most of my stuff is here now. My home is wherever Ivan is.
I pause by the wall near the entrance, eyes scanning the collage of photos. Us in front of snow-capped mountains. A waterfall. A sun-bleached desert. Ivan clinging to me in one, throwing his head back with laughter in another. I could stare at these forever.
I love him.
No, I really do. Bone-deep. All-consuming. Like it's etched into my DNA.
I step out of my shoes, heading straight to the laundry room. Dirty socks, shirt, slacks—they all go into the basket. One thing Ivan is strict about is outside versus inside clothes. You do not sit on the bed in outside clothes. Period.
I've been doing it so long now, it feels wrong not to. Feels like some sacred ritual that keeps our home intact.
I pad barefoot through the hallway in just my briefs and head to the bedroom to change. Comfy joggers and a t-shirt. Then I make my way to the kitchen.
Cooking is my job now. I graduated from the private lessons seven months ago, and I take dinner seriously. We do takeout sometimes, sure, but there's something about cooking for him that settles something feral in me. Feeds the part of me that needs to care for him, to make things with my hands.
Maybe it's the alpha instinct. Or maybe it's just love.
I rub my chest. Breathe. Try to keep it together.
Because I have another plan tonight.
A ring.
Tucked away in the spice cabinet. Hidden behind the chili flakes and garlic salt, there's a little black velvet box.
I can't believe it's been sitting there for four months.
I chicken out every time.
Because what if he says no?
I know he loves me. I feel it in every look, every kiss, every sigh when he falls asleep tangled in me.
But he's just twenty-four. Marriage is... serious.
What if he has more to see, more to do? What if he wants to build a legacy without being tied to a Vale?
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I shove the box back in its place and close the cabinet.
The oven timer dings. I snap to attention. Chicken's ready. I pull it out carefully, steam wafting into the air. I garnish the plate, double-check the seasoning, and set it on the table with quiet precision.
Everything has to be perfect.
Because tonight… maybe tonight, I'll find the courage.
I glance at the clock. Ivan should be home soon.
God help me.
***
Ivan POV
Something is wrong with Zander.
He thinks he's hiding it well, but I can see right through him. It's in the way he smiles a second too late. The way his eyes flick away when I speak, like he's on the verge of saying something but pulls it back at the last second.
And I can't, for the life of me, figure out what it is.
We're in bed now. I'm lying on his chest, tracing slow, idle circles with my finger over the skin there. Dinner was great—his cooking keeps getting better—and we had one of those desperate, messy "Imissed you" showers that ended with us nearly breaking the curtain rod. But still… something's off.
During dinner, he looked like he was going to say something important. He even opened his mouth once. But then… nothing. Chickened out.
Again.
I don't want to pressure him, but I wish he knew he could talk to me. Really talk. There's nothing he could say that would make me love him less.
I snuggle closer, burying my face against his neck. His scent is soothing. Like summer and pinewood and safety. It's ridiculous how perfectly it balances me—how it can either send me spiraling into a needy mess or bring me down from one.
This alpha/omega biology is bizarre. Powerful. Terrifying sometimes. But right now, it's comforting.
"Did you miss me?" I murmur, voice muffled against his skin.
He laughs quietly, and I feel the low rumble in my cheek.
"Want me to show you again just how much I missed you?" he asks, his hand sliding to rest against the small of my back, palm warm.
I grin but yawn against his chest.
"I'll take you up on your offer tomorrow. I'm tired. Jetlag is a bitch."
He hums in response, trailing lazy fingers over my spine.
"How was it?" he asks.
And just like that, I start rambling.
About the shoot. The sand. The unbearable heat. How the makeup artist nearly cried trying to keep my face from melting off. How the gowns looked stunning against the desert backdrop. How the photographer kept asking me to look "feral but composed," whatever that means.
I love modeling. I really do. I love the lights and the cameras and the buzz of it all. I always have. But the truth is… it doesn't hit the same anymore. Not the way it used to.
Maybe it's because I already lived a whole life doing this. Died at 33, after 19 years in the industry. And now, here I am again, doing it for a 20th.
The joy is still there. But it's muted. Faint. Familiar in a way that doesn't thrill me anymore.
"I don't think I'll be taking any jobs for a while," I admit into the quiet dark.
Zander goes still for a second. Then he presses a kiss to my hair and says, "Okay."
No questions. No pressure. Just… okay.
I melt a little.
I sigh into his skin and wrap myself tighter around him. Sometimes I wish I could burrow inside his body. Hide under his ribs. Camp out inside his heart.
That's how much I love him.
That's how safe I feel here.