The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 341

Chapter 167-1

ལན།

25 Paint

Chapter 167-1

The quiet inside our home hits me like a warm, velvet wave.

After hours of roaring laughter, clattering plates, heavy bass from the clubhouse jukebox, and the constant, booming presence of twenty leather-clad men celebrating my clean health scans, the stillness is almost physical.

I kick off my cute little boots by the door, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief that rattles clear down to my ribs. My feet sink into the plush rug, and I lift off the flower crown still sitting on top of my head.

I set the woven ring of pink peonies and eucalyptus gently on the entry table, running my fingers over the soft petals one last time, admiring the weight of the day and how incredible it feels to finally be home.

“I’ll start a fire,” Locke says. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

He’s already shed his heavy leather cut, wearing just my favorite fitted black thermal shirt, the one that stretches tight over his broad shoulders and muscled chest. He walks past me into the sitting room, crouching down by the stone hearth.

Within seconds, he blows life back into the smoldering embers, adding two thick logs of seasoned pine until bright, golden flames dance up the chimney, casting a deep, flickering orange glow across the dark hardwood floor.

I stand there for a moment just watching him. The way the firelight catches the broad width of his back, the dark stubble along his jaw, and the sheer, solid size of him. He’s delicious and strong and amazing – and most days, I still can’t believe that he’s chosen to be mine.

He goes into the kitchen now, the faint sound of glass clinking echoing in the quiet. I walk into the sitting room and settle into the huge leather armchair set right in front of the hearth.

I sink into the deep cushions, pulling my knees up toward my chest and tucking my oversized knit sweater over my legs. The heat from the fireplace hits my face, thawing the last lingering bits of tension from my shoulders.

Locke walks back into the room holding two crystal flutes. The pale, golden liquid inside bubbles effervescently, catching the flickering light of the fire.

He walks over, handing one of the glasses to me. I look down at the dancing bubbles, up at him.

“Is this the…”

“Alcohol-free champagne,” Locke says. “For both of us. I’ve never been much a drinker, and I’m

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The tension of dodging Mayhem’s chaotic shot glass, the loud shouts of the guys, the sheer emotional weight of holding a clean scan in one hand and a secret life in the other… it all melts away into the warm air between us.

“Dad was really serious about Monday, huh?” I say softly, looking into the fire, watching the orange embers spark. “He looked at me like he was ready to physically padlock the office if I touched a sin gle piece of paper.”

Locke lets out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrates through the space between us. “The man means it, Zara. Seeing you healthy, seeing you surrounded by flowers and cake… he just wants to keep you safe and relaxed in the sun for a little while.”

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