"What do you suppose a husband and wife normally do inside their bedroom?"
His whisper skimmed my cheek like electricity. H-He just stole my first kiss! Panic and heat tangled in my chest.
"W-W-What husband and wife nonsense are you talking about?" I shot back, turning my face away because the force of his gaze felt as sharp as a blade.
He gave a low, taunting laugh. "Aren't we exactly that?"
Technically he had a point, yet still! My first kiss was supposed to be sacred, something tender reserved for a beloved partner— not ripped away by a cold, unreadable villain.
"I know what you're thinking," he murmured, the voice of a rich baritone that vibrated through my bones. "Are you perhaps hoping for a second kiss?"
I shook my head so hard the pillow rustled, but in doing so I realized my palms were braced against his rock-solid chest. When did I plant my hands there? I tried to shove him, yet he did not budge so much as a millimeter.
"S-Stop it! G-Get off me right now!" I hissed, mortified by my own breathless tone.
Without warning he pinned me flat against the mattress, each of his hands caging my head between powerful arms. My heart spiked.
"H-Hey!" I squeaked.
He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath from mine. Reflex made my eyelids slam shut— if he kissed me again I might combust on the spot.
"Quiet," he whispered directly into my ear, hot breath sending a shiver down my spine. "My mother is eavesdropping in the corridor."
Eyes still squeezed shut, I registered his next confession: "She expects to hear evidence that a little Zion might be on the way before she returns to the main estate, Mrs. Cartridge."
Absolutely not.
"W-W-What do you mean by little Zion? I will never—" My protest derailed when his mouth sealed over mine once more.
Softness, warmth, a faint taste of peppermint—my senses whirled. His tongue coaxed at my lips, testing, teasing. I froze, fists knotting in the fabric of his shirt because I had no idea where to put them or how to breathe.
At last he lifted his head, leaving me panting. Those obsidian eyes studied every flicker of my expression; his jaw flexed as though deliberating another assault.
"Why d-d-did you k-kiss me?" I managed, cheeks fiery while I stared at the ceiling to avoid him.
"Because you are my wife," he said, tone maddeningly calm. "I may kiss you whenever I wish."
Heat surged to the roots of my hair. His breath fluttered across my cheek again and I flinched, certain another kiss loomed.
"…Would you like more?" he asked, voice sinfully gentle.
W-What more was he offering? I shook my head so vigorously the bed creaked. He chuckled, straightened, and stepped back.
"We'll save the next lesson for another night," he declared before striding toward the en-suite bathroom.
For several heartbeats I lay stunned, blanketed in silence except for the rush of the shower beyond the door. Finally I exhaled, dragged the comforter over my head, and tried to steady the gallop of my pulse. Under cover of darkness I replayed the scene: those mesmerizing eyes, that impossible softness of lips, the bold stroke of his tongue. My skin prickled with lingering heat. No, I would not think about it— definitely not about how my body had responded.
Minutes later the bathroom door opened. I remained burrowed under the blanket but clutched the edge in panicked anticipation.
"I know you're awake," his mellow voice said nearby.
I turned my back to him, cocooning myself.
"Don't you have your own room?" I asked, hoping the quiver in my words went unnoticed.
He chuckled, low and confident. "The room you've been using is mine. This is the master's suite. I slept elsewhere recently so you could acclimate."
"Where exactly did you sleep?" Curiosity escaped before I could snatch it back.
"My study," he replied succinctly. "You never opened the double doors beside your dressing room, have you? That closet links to my study, which connects to this bathroom."
So the mansion hid secret passages. Trust Zion Cartridge to own such a labyrinth.
Footsteps retreated toward the dressing room, and I exhaled again in relief.
"Try to rest," he advised. "Important documents await me."
When I heard the door click shut behind him, the weight of exhaustion settled like a quilt. I drifted into uneasy dreams until warmth at my back yanked me into dawn.
Still half-asleep, I shifted and my elbow collided with something firm. Eyes flying open, I twisted to find Zion himself slumbering peacefully, features softened into near-angelic calm—nothing like the ruthless villain described in My Lily. Reality crashed back when a heavy pressure tightened over my waist: his arm, anchoring me possessively.
"So early in the morning, and you're already eager, Mrs. Cartridge," he rasped, voice husky with sleep.
Blood thundered in my ears as he opened his eyes, obsidian depths locking onto mine. His sudden proximity made thought impossible.
"W-W-What—?" I squealed, but the question disintegrated when he dipped forward and captured my lips again.
This kiss was lazier yet somehow deeper, exploring. My ears burned. The pace of my heart skyrocketed when he gently caught my lower lip between his teeth and nipped, sharp enough to draw a startled groan.
He soothed the sting with a languid stroke of his tongue, then parted just far enough to speak, breath mingling with mine.
"Consider that interest in last night's unfinished business," he murmured, eyes half-lidded.
I could only stare, speechless, while he traced a thumb along the curve of my cheek. A smile, small but unmistakably real, tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"Relax," he said. "Mother has already left for the morning prayer garden. We're safe from her inspections— for now."
Relief and mortification tangled inside me. "Y-You can't keep kissing me whenever it pleases you," I protested weakly, though even to my ears the words lacked conviction.
He raised a single dark brow. "Can't I? A husband's privileges are difficult to revoke." The playful glint in his gaze startled me; I had expected mockery, not teasing warmth.
Before I mustered a reply he rolled away, stretching like a sleek panther across the sheets. Sunlight spilled through ornate curtains, painting gold on his hair, accenting the hard lines of his shoulders. He looked devastatingly at home.
"Come downstairs when you're ready," he said, climbing from the bed. "Breakfast is at eight, and my staff will revolt if we're late again."
Watching his retreating back, I pressed trembling fingers to my tingling lips. Whether Zion's kisses were strategy, habit, or something unspoken, they had detonated a storm inside me I could neither name nor deny. I inhaled, tasting faint peppermint he'd left behind, and wondered just how many kisses it would take before I accepted the title Mrs. Cartridge not as a cover, but as truth.