Page 45 of Dragonfly

More importantly, how the hell did I not notice he was nearly naked behind me? Especially since he was certainly hard before I finally fell asleep—and, fuck, I can’t believe I felt comfortable enough in a bed with the head Dragonfly to actually nod off.

By the time he finishes his shower and comes out in a cloud of tempting perfume, looking like he stepped off the pages of GQ, I’ve schooled my features into a look that says I wasn’t affected at all by his half-naked walk to the bathroom.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Why? Are you going to miss me?”

I huff. “You wish.”

His answer is a tiny half-smile. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to join you for breakfast this morning. I’m needed at the office.”

The office. He knows damn well that I know what kind of business he’s in, and yet, he insists on acting like he has a legitimate job that he goes off to everyday. Honestly? I think he’s trying to get me so pissed that I finally blurt out that I wanted to kill him because he runs a mafia—but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.

“That’s alright. I’ll share with Orion.”

He didn’t want my cat in his bed. He’ll probably hate the idea of an animal eating off of his plate.

Come on, Damien. Say something bad about my cat. Remind me why I’m supposed to hate you so fucking much…

He doesn’t.

Damn it.

“I’ll be home by dinner, and that will be for just you and me. Until then, if you want to leave the room, I think it’s only fair that you should be able to.”

Really? “Why?”

He doesn’t answer me. Going on as if I hadn’t asked anything at all, he says, “The third floor is off-limits. You can go to the first floor if you’d like, but that’s usually where Vin is when he’s home. Our cook, too, our maid, and Frankie, my valet, who’s in charge of the staff.”

Ah. The grey-haired man who brings me each of the three meals Damien insists I’m served, whether he’s there to eat with me or not. I knew he was Frankie, but at least now I know what his job title is.

“As for the second floor where we are,” Damien continues, straightening his blood-red tie. “Feel free to explore it. The television out there is much bigger, and I have a couch that, once you sink into it, you’ll never want to leave.”

Since he still is insisting I can’t, maybe that’s a good thing.

But why now? I’ve only been here four days. He trusts me enough to leave my gilded cell?

The tracker, I remember. Even if I try to leave, I can’t without him coming after me. I can’t even try to remove it, either. For one thing, no one in this manor will let me have a knife; trying to cut my steak during dinner with a spoon is proof of that. For another, the subdermal tracker is so fucking tiny, I could hack off half my bicep and still never find it.

“Aren’t you afraid I might mess with some of your stuff?”

“Why would I be? This is your home now, Savannah. The second floor is ours. It belongs to us. Enjoy it.”

I just… I don’t get it. I don’t understand him. I made it clear I hate him, even if I refuse to explain myself. So, no. There is no ‘us’. There is no ‘our’. There’s only Damien versus me.

Isn’t there?

SIXTEEN

GENEVIEVE

SAVANNAH

Call me paranoid and suspicious if you want, but Damien’s offer to explore the second floor… it feels like a trap.

I don’t know what he’s getting out of it. Like, if I slip out of the bedroom and nose around, will he use that against me? Or will he see me giving in as a victory in this war between us?

Or is this war as one-sided as it seems?

---