–Livana–
I can't see them. The photos.
The investigator said they were of my sister—the one who laced my drink with drugs and paid someone to spray whatever corrosive poison it was into my eyes.
I don't want to tell anyone, but I can't see the photos. And I can't call Laura.
What if she's in them?
Damon? I don't trust that bastard. But would he really tolerate Laura if she'd hurt me?
I wouldn't have minded dying if it was just about the inheritance. If my sister had killed me outright, I'd almost respect the efficiency. But this... this was different. This was slow.
"Livy."
I stopped, turning toward the voice, though all I faced was endless black.
"Don't you knock?" I asked, my tone flat.
"Oh, honey," he said, voice dripping with arrogance, "I don't need to knock."
I heard the shift in his steps—heavy at first, then muffled. Carpet. He was closer now.
"What are you worried about?"
His hand found my chin, fingers tilting it upward. I stared into the void, my eyes useless, yet still capable of burning.
"Oh, fuck," he whispered. "You just made me really, really hard right now."
"We're not fucking unless you're clean. Get tested."
He laughed, and it made me frown—he always laughed at the wrong time, like some cruel joke only he understood.
He'd said he was clean before. Said he got tested. But men like him always say that. What about now?
"I bought something for you to wear tonight," he said.
"There's no need. I've got more pajamas than I can count."
"I know."
His hand disappeared from my chin, and I straightened my spine. I heard the faint rustle of fabric. Then warmth—his palms on my knees.
Was he kneeling?
"Oh, baby."
He lifted one of my ankles, resting it somewhere high. His shoulder?
"What are you doing?" I asked, low and sharp.
"If you put that mouth on me after using it on someone else," I warned, "I'll kill you."
He only chuckled, rubbing circles on my thighs like I was something tame.
"You seemed tense earlier. What was bothering you?"
"It's none of your business," I said, folding my leg—the one he'd propped up—as a subtle protest.
"Hmm, darling… I went to the club. Ran into your ex-fiancé."
I tilted my head. Strange. Why bring that up?
"It's a fun story, I promise."
He rose, pulling my legs to wrap around his hips. His breath fanned across my neck as he pressed feather-light kisses to my skin.
"He got really pissed when I told him he doesn't know how to make a woman come."
I didn't respond. His voice was a buzz in the dark, and I wasn't sure if I was annoyed or simply tired of existing in rooms I couldn't see.
"Just like poor Carrie, trying to squeeze something out of him until she hit climax. She didn't, by the way. I told him that. Also told him how you screamed my name when you came. Drove him insane."
His laugh rang out again, too loud, too pleased. It wasn't funny.
"Then I met some friends—guys sharing one woman. Tyrona showed up. Accused me of hiding a mistress."
Now that made me listen.
"A mistress?" I echoed, the word like ash on my tongue.
"I wouldn't mind having one, as long as it's you," he murmured, lips ghosting along my jaw. "Tyrona really thinks I'd keep you in the shadows. I can't wait to introduce you to the family. I wonder what faces the Dela Vega's will make."
"That woman will kill me."
"Nah," he said, almost casually. "I'll cut off their hands before they get the chance."
He began to undress me, and I didn't stop him. Not this time.
"Let's try on the dress I bought you," he said, excitement in his voice—boyish, almost. Like a child unwrapping something he shouldn't touch.
He doesn't realize he's dressing a corpse in silk.
Once he introduces me to the Dela Vegas, they might kill me. Maybe Tyrona herself.
But part of me wonders…
How much fun would it be to play with them first?
–Damon–
She's perfect from every angle.
My wife—lying there in nothing but that lavender silk-and-lace negligee, so sheer it may as well be smoke—looked like sin incarnate. The silk clung to her breasts and slipped between her thighs, leaving the rest of her bare, delicate, untouched by modesty.
I wanted her. I always did.
But I needed to slow down. Just enough to admire her properly.
I took a quick, cold shower, hoping it would dull the ache. It didn't.
When I stepped out, towel slung low around my waist, she was curled beneath the duvet, waiting. Not seductively. Just... there. Still. Untouchable.
"Damon," she called, her voice soft.
I lit up like a storm-struck wire.
"Yes, my love?" I crossed the room with purpose.
She didn't even face me. "Can you put the drops in my eyes? They feel sandy."
"Of course."
I moved to her side and took the bottle from the bedside. Checked it. Cleaned her eyes. I even tested it on myself first—cold, smooth, no sting. Only then did I gently drop one into each of hers.
She winced. I steadied her chin with one hand and whispered, "Almost done, sweetheart."
When I finished, I tossed the towel away and lifted the covers like they were curtains to a sacred shrine.
She was still wearing that lace. That damned lace. No underwear. No pretense of innocence. Just silk and shadows.
I let out a low breath.
She looked like a dream. My dream. My obsession.
And then she said it.
"No."
She pushed me—blind, delicate, and still somehow stronger than any man I've fought.
"But I'm hard," I whispered, pouting, though she couldn't see it.
"You can handle that yourself, can't you?"
"Yeah," I said, settling next to her, "by watching you."
Another push. This time not forceful—just final.
"You have your own room. Sleep there."
"I'm your husband. I sleep where my wife sleeps."
She turned away from me, hugging a pillow like it could protect her from the fire I carried inside me.
I clenched my jaw and exhaled slowly. I needed to keep my distance. If only because she told me to.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.
Still, I couldn't help myself. I curled beside her, pressing my chest against her back, my hand sliding around to her waist. Just to feel that she was there. Real.
Mine.
The phone on her bedside table buzzed and lit up.
Temptation burned in my chest.
I could grab it. Read everything. I wouldn't even have to guess her passcode.
But I didn't.
The GPS I installed was enough. For now.
I buried my face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her skin—faint lavender and clean sheets.
She didn't pull away. Not fully.
That was enough.
For now.
I kissed the slope of her shoulder. "You drive me insane, you know that?" I whispered against her skin.
But I wouldn't trade it. Not the ache. Not the wait.
She's mine. My wife.
My one and only.