–Livana–
The whole day had been exhausting enough, considering he used me like some kind of sex doll. I'm a human being, but that bastard—my husband—seems to think otherwise. He's trying to impregnate me. Good luck with that. With my condition, I'm infertile.
"I'm so sorry," Laura mumbled, trying—and failing—to hold back her laughter. I couldn't even walk properly. I felt more disabled now than I had ever felt before.
"So, you were thinking of me like a slut who slept with two hot men?" she teased. "Well, Kai and Damien are both smoking hot, but they don't exactly... stimulate me."
I groaned in disgust.
God, why was I stuck listening to this?
"You and your damn sex toys," Damien said loudly, and I shook my head in pure mortification.
"What's wrong with that, Damien? Men can't give me an orgasm, so I'm giving myself one," Laura shot back, entirely too casual for my liking.
"So, how many men have you slept with?" Damien asked, his voice full of amusement.
Silence. And then Laura, proudly: "Zero."
"Maybe we could change that," Damien proposed, his voice dripping with suggestion. "Might get you to retire your little collection."
"Sorry," Laura said sweetly. "But you're not enough."
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could unhear their entire disgusting conversation.
I was tired. Worn thin. I just wanted silence—peace. Not this endless parade of horny banter while I sat helpless in my seat.
I stayed reclined, sinking deeper into the comfortable leather, ignoring Damon's lingering presence as he hovered nearby. I clung to Laura, refusing to let her wander off. I needed her like a shield—an anchor. There was no way I was letting Damon touch me again. Not for at least two weeks. Hopefully.
God, I just wanted us to reach our destination already.
At some point, I must've dozed off. Hours later, I stirred at the feel of my seatbelt being unbuckled. A hand brushed against me—large, warm, familiar, with strong muscles I knew all too well.
"Good evening, my sweet wife," Damon murmured, pressing a pair of hot lips against mine.
"We've arrived in Manhattan," he said, sounding every bit the doting husband.
But he was still Damon—still violent, still dangerous beneath the sweet facade.
He scooped me carefully out of my seat, peppering my face with kisses. His voice turned playful. "Maybe you should stretch a little."
"Put me down," I gritted out.
To his credit, he obeyed, setting me down gently. I straightened my spine as much as I could. Damon was fussing over me, draping me in layers of clothing, likely trying to hide me from prying eyes—probably my father's men, still hunting for Laura and me.
"Laura, hood up," Damon ordered sharply.
"Oh, please. I know what I'm doing," Laura grumbled, irritation thick in her voice.
I sighed. God save me from their bickering.
The next leg of the journey was short. After another long drive, we finally arrived. The doctor was already waiting. He examined my eyes thoroughly, speaking in terms too complicated for me to follow. Only Laura and Damon seemed to understand the details.
The doctor explained that my eyes could still be saved with surgery. I just needed to be prepared first. The eye drops he prescribed would gradually cleanse the toxins that had been deliberately put into my eyes.
Hope sparked quietly inside me.
Hope to see again.
Hope to be free.
After the checkup, we prepared for our flight back to the Philippines. I slumped into the familiar seat on the plane, grateful for the small comforts.
But as soon as we were in the air, Damon carried me away—to a private room.
The plush bed met my back, and before I could react, Damon pinned me under him, his body heavy and familiar.
"No," I said firmly, pushing against his chest. "You're not getting anything. Not now. Not for a few days."
"Oh, shit," he muttered. "Are you serious?"
"Get the fuck off, Damon. Or I swear, I'll divorce you."
"Yeah, yeah... I'm sorry," he grumbled, rolling off me quickly.
I yanked the blanket up to my chin, cocooning myself. I thought he'd leave. Instead, I heard the rustle of clothes, the dip of the mattress as he slid in beside me.
He curled around me from behind, casually sliding his hand over my breast and squeezing it gently.
"But this is fine, right?" he whispered, almost teasing.
I clenched my teeth, humiliated but resigned.
I reminded myself—he's my husband.
At least he wasn't doing this in front of anyone.
Maybe... maybe that made it bearable.
For now.
–Damon–
It would be a few more hours before we landed back in the Philippines. I stayed in our private room inside the jet, refusing to leave Livana's side.
She was curled up against the pillows and duvet, sleeping like an angel—so small, so fragile. I lay on my back, staring at the sterile white ceiling of the plane, thoughts circling like vultures. Should I just destroy the Knox family? The idea was tempting. But unlike the Creightons, the Knoxes were bigger, more influential. Still, not as powerful as the Braxtons.
Livana groaned softly and shifted onto her back. My chest tightened. Was she in pain? Damn it, maybe I had overdone it earlier.
"Alright, I'll give you a massage," I said, sitting up.
"You better not think of anything stupid," she mumbled, half-asleep.
A smile tugged at my lips. "I got you, wifey," I murmured and signaled for an attendant to bring me some ointments. A small tray was handed to me, and I inspected each label carefully.
"So, how do you like it?" I asked playfully.
"Nothing too strong. I don't want my skin to burn, idiot," she muttered.
I chuckled. "Then, we'll test it first."
She lazily extended her wrist toward me, and I applied a dab of each ointment until she found one she was satisfied with. Then, carefully, I helped her turn onto her stomach. I lifted her shirt and slid her waistband down to her hips just enough to expose her lower back.
Glorious.
Unable to resist, I squeezed her soft buttocks gently, earning a sleepy groan of protest.
"Fuck off, Damon! I swear to you—" she growled.
I grinned wide. God, I loved when she got feisty.
I focused then, kneading her lower back carefully, easing the tension from her muscles. My fault. I overdid it. I couldn't help myself; being inside her, owning her—it was addictive. But I couldn't let her hurt. Not my Livana.
When I finished, she sipped from her water bottle and let me lead her to the bathroom. She preferred to sleep rather than eat, so I let her. She needed the rest.
On my way back, I caught a glimpse of Laura and Damien acting... strange. Damien leaned over Laura, and for a moment, I thought they were kissing—until he pulled back, grinning mischievously, and twirling a permanent marker in his fingers.
He caught my glare and gave a hushing gesture. I shook my head. Those two had been weird since high school. Always dancing around each other. Maybe someday they'd figure it out.
I returned to Livana, tucked her back into bed, and stayed close. Hours passed in peaceful silence, broken only when we finally touched down.
The moment we landed, I turned on my phone. Notifications flooded in, but one message made my blood run cold.
Tyrona.
Tyrona: If you're cheating on me again, I swear. I'll kill every bitch you sleep with.
I scoffed, disgust curling in my gut. Cheating? I never belonged to her. She'd been obsessed with me, rejecting every other man, waiting like a pathetic dog for scraps. I made it clear years ago—we would never be together.
I didn't hate her at first. Until the day she shoved Livana into a ten-foot-deep pool and tried to drown her with the cleaning net, laughing like it was a game.
That's when the hatred was born.
I wanted to kill her then. God, I planned it so many times. But the family insisted on peace. They said Tyrona was harmless. I knew better.
Another image appeared.
A grainy photo. Livana and I entered a hotel room together, three years ago.
Tyrona: I'll start with this bitch.
I stared at the screen, feeling my vision darken at the edges.
She just signed her death warrant.
Not even family loyalty would stop me this time.
If she so much as touched Livana, I would erase her from existence—burn her, bury her, wipe her from the face of this earth like she never existed.
No one, no one touches what's mine.
I stared at the screen, my fingers clenching around the phone so tightly I heard the casing crack.
Start with Livana?
Over my dead fucking body.
A low, dangerous laugh rumbled in my chest, too quiet for anyone but me to hear. She thought she could threaten my wife? My Livana? The only pure thing in this rotted, bloodstained world?
I envisioned it then—vivid, glorious.
Tyrona on her knees, sobbing, begging for mercy I wouldn't give.
Her throat under my hand, squeezing until her eyes bulged and her lips turned blue.
Her body disappearing into the ocean's black embrace, weighted down so deep no one would ever find her.
I would tear her apart piece by piece if she even breathed wrong in Livana's direction. I would burn everything she loved to the ground, salt the earth so nothing could grow from her memory.
She would learn what real fear was.
I wasn't just a Blackwell by blood.
I was the nightmare families warned their children about.
And for Livana? I would become a monster far worse than any they had ever imagined.
I would paint my hands red if it meant keeping her safe.
I would massacre an entire bloodline if it meant hearing Livana's soft breathing beside me one more night.
She was mine.
Mine to love.
Mine to protect.
Mine to destroy anyone for.
I slid my phone into my pocket, feeling a cold, focused calm settle over me.
Let Tyrona try.
Let her make the first move.
I was done playing nice.