Page 13 of Fragile Twisted Vows

“Sit,” he barks, pointing one long finger at the chaise across from him.

His thick brows furrow over his eyes as he waits. I rub my palms on my shorts as I stand tall and wince from both the pain in my head and now my lower back. I take a deep breath and move, my heart pounding in my chest as I slowly walk to the lounge chair.

His eyes stayed glued to me the entire time, traveling from my face down my torso until they land on my legs. Heat creeps up and colors my cheeks. I feel exposed under his gaze. Out of place and overly assessed. I can’t remember a time when I felt this uncomfortable before.

When I sit down, I refuse to meet his gaze. My eyes stayed glued to the floor as my hands rest on my knees to try and stop them from shaking.

But it’s no use. I can feel his eyes burning into me.

“What do you want with me, Damien? Has my sister pissed you off again and now you’re taking it out on me?” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“In short, yes. But not entirely,” he says with a low rumble.

Why am I always paying for my family’s sins? Even when they don’t want me?

“Megan has pissed me off, but that’s nothing new. And to be fair, there’s not much to take out on you, Lucille. I would have to care about her in order to hold a grudge.” He sighs and I open my eyes.

They slowly lift from my knees to his face.

He licks his full lips now, one hand stroking the neatly trimmed, dark beard on his square jaw and perfectly chiseled face. His dark hair is so sleek, that the city lights practically bounce off of it. The suit that he’s wearing forms every muscle perfectly and the top button of his shirt underneath his blazer is undone, revealing a glimpse of dark skin and a gold chain. His leather shoes gleam and he smells of an expensive cologne that would otherwise have me melting inside.

And if I wasn’t so afraid of him right now, I would be melting inside.

Because he looks like a painting.

Something expensive and priceless all at once. Unique and unable to be recreated. He looks like he belongs in the Louvre. Sitting in his own room, demanding everyone’s attention to admire his dark, tantalizing beauty.

I’d imagine that this is what Satan would look like if he wasn’t a serpent in Eve’s garden.

He’d look just like Damien Reed right now.

“Then why am I here?” I whisper as I bite down on my bottom lip, desperate to keep my emotions in check.

He makes me feel so conflicted. Like I am at war with both my survival instinct and womanhood.

“You’re here because your sister failed to provide security for me here. I’ve got a lot of slimy people after me, Ms. Fairchild. And as powerful as I am, I need something a little…more. The American Dream I guess you could say.” He chuckles as he rubs his chin and tilts his head to the side to eye me up and down.

I don’t like that look. I don’t like the way that makes me feel at all.

I feel like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. Like game with a price tag on it.

“Why are people after you?” I ask and I know I shouldn’t have done that.

Because now he really does look like the devil when he smiles at me.

“Because I’m a bad man. And they want to punish me for my crimes,” he growls.

Jesus. How did I get here?

“And what am I? A distraction?” I ask and he shrugs.

“In a way. Though, I like to think of you as a ploy. Nobody wants to fuck with the senator’s daughter,” he says.

“That’s what you think. My family hates me. I’m an outcast.” I sigh.

“Exactly. Which makes you an even better ploy. You are still kin to a very important man here, Lucille. And you have no ties to them now,” he quips back.

“My sister is kin too. Why did you go and divorce her then if you needed a ploy?” I scoff.

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