Sweet Hatred Chapter 339: The Tall Foreigner/Husband

For a mont, sothing flickered in my chest, Ivan, the mory of his voice, his death. Erin. His half-sister. A thread of him still walking the earth.

It tugged at , but not enough to shake . Not enough to compete with the sound of Aria’s laugh still echoing in my ears.

I exhaled slowly, dismissing the sharp pull of sentint. "Here’s what you’ll do. Set a quiet watch on the investors, don’t move yet. Let them make their next desperate play. I want them sloppy."

Niko nodded, already committing it to mory.

"And Erin..." My jaw flexed before I forced myself to finish. "Send her a ssage. Tell her I’ll set up a eting myself when I have ti."

"Yes, Boss."

I pushed off the table, already halfway to the door. I had no patience left for politics or apologies. The only thing I wanted, the only thing that mattered, was behind that door I’d walked away from.

I wasn’t going to waste another second.

The mont I stepped back into the suite, the world stopped feeling sharp around the edges. She was there, my Aria, half-sprawled across the bed with her hair a ss, blinking at like I’d taken too long. I didn’t waste a second.

I crossed the room, stripped off the weight of the day, and pulled her into . Her warmth hit like fire under skin, steadying , reminding that this was the only place I ever wanted to return to.

I kissed her hair, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, greedy for her even in these quiet monts. She slled like sleep, like the faint perfu of her skin against my sheets.

Mine. Always mine.

Later at night, I took her to the local market.

It wasn’t the kind of place anyone would expect to see , which was precisely why I went. Because it wasn’t about . It was about her.

The air buzzed with voices, Spanish weaving through laughter, music spilling from so distant radio. Stalls overflowed with color, sun-bright oranges stacked in pyramids, woven baskets, jewelry strung with beads that caught the afternoon light.

But none of it held . She did.

Aria darted from one stall to another like she’d been dropped into a playground. She tried on a wide straw hat that made her look absurdly small under the brim. She spun once, glancing at like she was daring to laugh. I didn’t. My throat was too tight.

"Cute," I said, watching her cheeks flush before she tossed the hat aside. I picked it up, handed the vendor a bill, and kept walking like it was nothing. She didn’t notice.

We ate everything we passed, empanadas still steaming, sweet churros coated in sugar, roasted almonds I bought just to hear her hum happily while chewing. She wrinkled her nose at fried anchovies, so I made her eat one. She nearly gagged, swatted at my chest, and I laughed so hard I knew people were staring.

At one stall, she stopped at a bracelet, thin, woven in red and gold. Her fingers hovered over it, not quite touching. Then she shook her head and moved on. I didn’t. My hand slipped into my pocket, the vendor slipping it into mine.

It wasn’t until much later, when the sun painted the market in gold and shadows, that I caught her hand. She looked up at , ready to scold, but I tied the bracelet neatly around her wrist.

"Kael," she whispered, half scandalized, half breathless.

"Shh." I pressed a kiss to her skin, just above the thread. "Just wear it."

The truth was simple: I could buy her diamonds, rubies, pearls worth more than this entire island. But watching her with that little woven thing around her wrist made feel richer than all of it combined.

And as we walked hand in hand through the crowd, her smile hidden but there, I knew I was dood, completely, willingly dood.

By the ti we’d walked halfway through the market, Aria’s hands were already full. Not that she noticed, she was too busy flitting from stall to stall like a curious cat, pointing at necklaces, scarves, spices, everything.

I took the bags from her before she could protest, all of them dangling from one hand. My other hand? Firmly laced with hers. She glared up at as if to say she could carry them herself, but she didn’t tug away. Not once.

Vendors began to notice us, the tall foreigner with too many bags, and the small, fiery woman dragging him everywhere. A few smiled knowingly, muttering to each other in Spanish. I caught enough of the words.

"Mira, su esposa lo tiene entrenado."

(Look, his wife has him trained.)

Aria froze for half a second. Her head snapped up at , eyes wide. I kept my expression perfectly calm, only the barest hint of a smirk tugging at my mouth.

"What did they just say?" she whispered suspiciously.

"Nothing important." I shifted the bags, making a show of adjusting the weight. "Just that you’re bossy."

She narrowed her eyes at . "Liar."

"They said ’wife.’"

Her face flad instantly, and I knew I’d live a hundred years just to see that look again.

"I... They... It’s not..." she stamred, waving her hands like she could erase the word from the air.

I leaned down until my lips brushed her ear, my voice low enough for only her.

"Wife has a nice ring to it."

Her whole body stiffened. She whirled on , ready to argue, but I was already moving, handing one of the vendors a bill for roasted peppers she’d been eyeing. The old woman behind the stall winked at Aria as she bagged them.

"Take care of your husband, niña."

Aria nearly choked. She spun on , her cheeks hot enough to burn through skin. "Are you hearing this?"

I played dumb. "I’m hearing it loud and clear."

Her glare could’ve cut glass, but the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying her.

I reached over, brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, and said softly, "Don’t worry. They’re just saying what I already know."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Which is?"

"That you’re mine."

And just like that, her fight crumbled. She turned away too fast, pretending to admire a rack of shawls, but I saw her ears turn red. I let her go, smiling to myself as I shifted the weight of the bags in my hand.

God help , I didn’t care how heavy they were. If carrying every single stall ho on my back made her look at like that, I’d do it without hesitation.

I watched her go for it... the little trick she always used when she wanted to rattle . She cleared her throat like she was about to complain about the price of the shawl, stepped forward, picked up the brightest one on the rack and, with the full force of that sly little smile, looked straight at the vendor and said, loud enough for half the stall to hear:

"Fine, husband, buy it if you want to stop nagging."

For a breath I thought she’d said nothing at all. Then the world narrowed until there was only the sound of my pulse and the way the word... husband... rounded and landed in the air between us.

It should have been nothing. A joke. One of our pretends. But the mont it left her mouth sothing in shifted and the market blurred.

I saw a life spun out from that single syllable: her in a ridiculous shawl, curling into my side as we walked ho with far too many bags; mornings where her hair slled like sea salt and coffee, and she’d steal a bite from my plate and scold for being late; the sound of her laugh filling a house that used to be only my echo. I saw tiny, stubborn feet tracking sand around my suites, a small voice calling sothing softer than my na. I saw her, forever, and every image hit like the punch of a bell.

I hadn’t let myself consider that possibility too much... not really. I’d told myself I was protecting whatever fragile thing we had by keeping my distance, by pretending the contract ant nothing more than arrangent. But hearing her call that... so casually, so playfully... dissolved the excuse in a heartbeat. It wasn’t a joke to . It was an impossible, terrifying, beautiful promise.

Aria’s smirk faltered when she caught my face. The vendor, oblivious, was busy wrapping the shawl. She blinked, color rising through her cheeks like sunrise, and for a second she looked as startled as I felt.