Ima emerged from the room that would have been his and Esther’s. Would Ruana sleep with their son tonight, or in there? And why did the question not make anger or
regret churn within him?
His mother smiled. “They ought to be comfortable enough for now. We will do a more thorough cleaning tomorrow, after . . .” Her smile faded, her eyes darted from him to
Navid. Studied the boy, studied Zechariah with wide eyes.
He sucked in a breath. She would see the resemblance—such things never slipped past Ima.
She stepped close, gaze on Navid. “He is the image of you. The very image. Zechariah, what have you done? Is this how we raised you? How could you treat her that way, then
let her marry a monster?”
Had he thought all these conversations over years ago? He sighed. “She was already married, Ima.”
He expected that to set off a new storm. But she only drew in a sharp breath. “She is not now. Make this right, Zech.”
She hurried toward the other room, from which Ruana emerged. Gathered her into an embrace and whispered something. He thought he caught, “You are ours now.” Then, with one
last pointed glare his way, she left.
Who could ever comprehend how a woman would react? Shaking his head, he carried his son into the room he had designed for his children. These last six years, he had never
dared think one might actually sleep in it.
The maids had set up a pallet, and he bent down so he could settle Navid onto it. The boy went lax, one arm flopped above his head, the other over his belly. He certainly
had the look of their family.
Ruana sniffled behind him. He turned his head and found her with a hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming. Not surprising, given the day she barely survived.
That warm purpose surged again. Zechariah straightened and went to her, gathered her close. In spite of the years, in spite of the guilt that colored the memories, his arms
still remembered her. And this time, it felt right to hold her. “Shh. It is all right, Ruana. You and Navid are safe.”
“I know.” She clung to him, buried her face in his chest. “It is just—I never thought to see you with him.”
“I never thought to see him. So many times I wanted to, but I could not disturb the life you had set up for him. Tell me Asho was a good father to him. Please.”
“Most of the time.” Her eyes closed with a sigh. “Unless he would say something about Jehovah, or the Law. He did not like me learning it, much less Navid. But I wanted
him to know where he came from.”
No words existed to thank her for that, so he just buried a hand in her hair. “And you? Bijan told me Asho’s affection for you had faded, but . . .”
“Suffice it to say I will not mourn him.” A shiver ran through her.
He pulled back just enough to look into her face. He could not love her before, not with the guilt, then not given Esther. But now . . . he could, so easily. The mother of
his son, who had risked her life to teach the boy the ways of his people. “I want to be a father to him, Ruana. I want to be a husband to you.”
She rested a hand against his cheek. “I have always loved you, Zech. Even when I jested it away, I loved you.”
His lips found hers, familiar yet long-forgotten. Old flames fanned to life, but it was different now. Tempered by time and growth, heated by promise instead of the
forbidden. They could build a life together, a family. One worth fighting for.
“I would ask if I have to kill you too, Zech, were I not so confused. You two have not even spoken since I returned from Europe.”
Zechariah broke the kiss but did not release her as he looked to where Bijan and Eglah stood in the doorway. He smiled. “There was good reason for that.”
Still frowning, Bijan studied them. “Apparently, as that did not look like your first kiss. Do I need to thrash you after my side heals?”
“You would have reason, but I would prefer you give me your blessing to marry her.”
Bijan looked long at his sister, then sighed. “I expect someone to tell me what I missed while at war. But yes. Of course you have my blessing.” He glanced past them, to
the pallet. “You do not mind raising another man’s son?”
Ruana’s eyes verified his thoughts—the truth would not stay hidden once they saw Navid beside Zechariah’s family. He cleared his throat. “He is my son, Bijan, not Asho’
s.”
“What?”
“It was my doing, do not get angry with Zech.” Ruana’s spine went rigid under his hands. “And was Asho’s idea, actually.”
Her brother scowled. “That makes no sense.”
Her eyes slid shut. “He touched me only on our wedding night, to consummate the marriage. But he did not . . . like women. He preferred men. And—well, boys.”
Bijan cursed. “You will waste no time mourning him. Marry Zech as soon as his rabbi agrees, and let us all forget such a man ever ruled you.”
Ruana snuggled in and loosed a long breath. “Gladly.”
Forty-Eight
“Mistress?”