Page 33 of Dragonfly

If I tried to leave, Vin would stop me. No questions asked. He had his orders, and though I’m sure the big guy would rather snap my neck and end this bullshit, he made sure to knock on the door every half an hour as if to remind me he was there, and I was trapped.

The idea of giving in and sleeping in Damien’s bed with or without him had me deciding I’d much rather stay up and hope Vin knocks out first. I didn’t want to torture myself, though—especially since that seems to be my new ‘husband’s job—so when it became clear he’s like the Energizer-fucking-Dragonfly, I took a pillow, stripping the comforter from the bed, and made myself a small nest on the floor between the bathroom door and the bed while I waited for him to return.

He never did. And after hours of being on alert, the events of the day finally caught up to me. Hoping like hell he wouldn’t go back on his word and try to fuck me while I was sleeping, I eventually passed out.

Now I’m awake, I’m confused, and I’m more than a little pissed to be ripped from my dreams and thrust back into this nightmare by having to confront his face again so soon.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He raises his eyebrows. “What happened to my sweet Southern belle?”

Fuck. I completely forgot. A whole damn year of faking that drawl and all it took was the shock of waking up in Damien Libellula’s bedroom before my harsh Springfield accent comes roaring right back. I never even realized I had one until I purposely adopted that fake one, but it’s so different, even he noticed.

I can fix this. The last thing I need is for him to realize I’m not who he thinks I am. He might have his own twisted motives for forcing me to marry him after I stabbed him, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s just giving me another opportunity to get my revenge.

“Don’t know what you mean,” I say, slipping right back into the drawl as I shove the blankets away from, struggling to climb out of the nest. “But my question stands, sir. Why were you watching me sleep?”

“Mm. The ‘sir’s a nice touch. I think I like it.”

In that case, I’ll never call him that again.

“And I wasn’t watching you sleep, wife. I was waiting for you to wake up so I can let the movers in. But you looked so peaceful in my bedding just now, I didn’t want to disturb you. Sleep well?”

“It’s the floor,” I say flatly. “What do you think?”

“I think you would’ve been far more comfortable in my bed.”

I let out a short laugh without a single drop of humor in it. “Not if there was a chance you’d sneak into it while I couldn’t protect myself.”

“Ci sta, Savannah.”

I have no idea what he means. I don’t bother asking, either, since my foggy brain finally caught on to something else he said. “Wait. Movers?”

Instead of answering me, Damien rises up from his crouched position. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he calls out, “Come on in, boys.”

The door to his bedroom was open. I almost expect Vin to come in fist, but while the four men—because fuck ‘boys’, these are all men around my age or older—all wear a suit and gun combo similar to Damien’s cousin, none of them are the scowling giant from last night.

Damien said they were movers, but they’re obviously Dragonflies. However, that doesn’t change the fact that they’re all bringing something into the room.

The first two are carrying the ends of a floppy mattress. The next two are muscling a put-together metal frame in through the door with a little more trouble than the mattress duo did.

Each one is careful not to pay me attention. Oh, no. It’s like I’m an invisible which makes me wonder what Damien told any of them before he propped them up out in the hall with their?—

Hang on. Is that a bed?

Uh. Yeah. Damien points to the far side of his bed, wordlessly giving the order for his men to put the frame down first, then the mattress on top of it. There aren’t any pillows, sheets, or blankets, it’s undoubtedly a smaller version of his bed.

“Get me the table next, Gio.”

“You got it, boss.”

The one called Gio grabs one of the other indecipherable suits by the arm. Both men leave, returning a few minutes later. Gio is holding a folding table. The other guy has one narrow, metal chair—kind of like a stool—in each hand.

“Right there,” Damien says, pointing at a space near me this time.

I dance out of the way before Gio unfolds the table, snapping the legs into place. It’s about the size of a card table, perfect for the stools that the other suit sets out on opposite sides of the table.

“Frankie?”calls Damien.

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