Page 22 of Dragonfly

I feel like I’m walking into a museum. It’s quiet, with an open entryway, a spiral stair in front of me that leads up, and a pair of decorated halls that lead off to the rest of the house. The floor is expensive tile, perfectly shiny and clean, and as I take a deep breath, I catch the hint of disinfectant on the air.

It doesn’t look lived-in at all. As he leads me toward the spiral stairway, I half expect a docent to come out and offer us a tour.

Don’t need one. Damien knows exactly where he’s going—and though the next floor up has another wide hall with divots that lead to large rooms, there’s one in particular that he guides me toward.

It doesn’t take seeing the massive king-sized bed to realize that he’s taken me to his bedroom.

I mean, that helps. So do the stuffed armchairs in one corner, the antique wooden furniture—including a nightstand and a dresser—that matches the headboard of the bed, but more than anything, it’s the spicy musk overlaying the ‘clean’ scent that makes me sure it belongs to Damien.

It smells like him, and I hate that I like it.

Once I’m inside, I try not to lose it when the first thing he does is close the door behind us.

This is it. He has me right where he wants me, and I’m not even a little surprised when the second thing he does is shrug off his ruined jacket, before he waves at the bed.

“This is our room. Our marital bed. If we’re going to make this marriage work, there won’t be any of this trying to kill me bullshit. Outside of this room, go for it. Don’t be surprised if I don’t stop Vincent next time, but knock yourself out. In this room? I’ll stop you, and you might not like the way I do.” He shrugs off his blood-stained dress shirt, letting it fall to the floor. “Though I pride myself that, when I’m done with you, Savannah, you will.”

Once his bare chest is on display—and I have to look at the sculpted, hairless torso like I did back at the clinic and wonder how the hell he’s still in this good of shape at forty—it takes everything I have not to store.

Half-naked Damien. A bed.

Consummate…

“Stay over there,” I tell him, backing up so that there are a good ten feet separating us. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do tonight, but it’s not with me.”

“You’re my wife?—”

“You say I am.”

“Judge Callahan says you are. The wedding license says the same. By tomorrow, the city of Springfield will know that you’re mine.”

Oh my god. He sounds so certain—like he fucking means it.

His gaze narrows as he takes one step toward me, then another. “What’s the matter, Savannah? Is there someone you don’t want to know that you agreed to be my bride?”

Look who’s talking. I’m not the one who goes out with the same blonde chick all the time…

“No.”

Damien looks thoughtful as he continues to stalk me. Once he got close, I backed up again, only for him to continue following me around the room.

“You said that so quickly. Either you’re lying?—”

“I’m not,” I drawl lazily, pouring the honey into the Southern accent as he continues to herd me back toward his bed.

That’s what he was doing. I know it, and so does he. But when he senses a kernel of truth in my fake accent, he pauses. “Really? You have to have someone you care about.”

Someone he can use against me?

“Not anymore,” I tell him honestly.

“They’re dead?”

As good as.

“My, my. Ragna mia, hm? A black widow, is that it? I’m not your first victim?”

He’s being playful now. Who would’ve thought?

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