–Damon–
I didn't expect my wife to come back to the villa. I thought she'd be too pissed—or too tired. But there she was, walking in with her grandfather, fashionably late for dinner. Not that it mattered. We hadn't started yet anyway. I was far too busy plotting Alejandro Madrigal's unfortunate, deliciously brutal demise. Sophia asked for my help, and of course, I agreed.
Not out of kindness—don't insult me. No. I agreed because I want to claw that bastard's eyes out. He keeps ogling my wife like she's something he can have. News flash: she's mine. Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to worship. No one gets to sexualize my wife like that in front of me and live to smirk about it.
"Wifey!" I bolted toward her, ignoring the dagger-filled stare her grandfather sent my way. I scooped her into my arms like I hadn't seen her in years, kissing her cheeks loudly—obnoxiously—rubbing my nose and lips all over her skin.
