Page 59 of Claimed By the Villain
When I came downstairs about an hour ago, I brought the jewelry bags with me.
I opened them one by one, checking the contents.
There were earring-and-necklace sets. Rings. More sets of bracelets and earrings.
It wasn’t the contents what impressed me. I’m not materialistic, though I appreciate beautiful things, but I wanted to understand the meaning, the intent behind the gesture.
Did he go to a married friend just to figure out what I meant by “connection”?
Does that mean that, even though our marriage is out of necessity—me staying alive—and has an expiration date, he still cares about my feelings?
Last night, a lot of truths were spoken, and only then did I realize I’d built an image of him in my lovestruck teenage heart. Not of an ideal man, but of an unshakable fortress. I forgot what made him come live with my family, maybe because by the time I was old enough to understand, around ten, that he wasn’t actually part of us, Lucifer was already nineteen.
I had never seen his vulnerable, broken side. I guessed at it from overheard conversations between my mother and others about his degenerate family, and from the scars scattered across his body. Other than that, he never let me glimpse even a trace of vulnerability. So I idealized a dark, feelingless superhero, because in my selfish, narrow vision, I thought only about myself.
How much I loved him. How much I longed to be kissed and held by him. How much I wanted to be his wife.
Me, me, me.
And then, last night, I had a reality check seeing the world through his eyes. I have no illusions that the earth is a perfectplace. I know evil. It doesn’t scare me, I grew up alongside it. I called it father, brother, and, for a long time in my heart, love.
But I had never stopped to think about what made each of them—my father, Martin, and Lucifer himself—turn into what they were.
Now, piecing together parts of this puzzle, I’m starting to see a picture.
The physical scars he carries speak volumes, but it was what he told me last night, about never learning to appreciate the beautiful side of life, about never stopping to enjoy music, about his favorite color being the same as mine used to be—pink—and his fondest scent being my mother’s cooking… That’s what made me realize that some part of him, maybe the biggest part, skipped whole stages of childhood and adolescence.
If he’d grown up surrounded by love, maybe he’d be different today. I see it in my brother or even in myself. I wasn’t raised in a saint’s home, but by a father who as far as I know had ties to organized crime for as long as I can remember. Even if Martin and I weren’t as innocent as regular kids, at least we had a home with a mother, a father who, while not affectionate, wasn’t abusive. We had clean clothes and, like Lucifer remembered, food on the table every day.
“I can’t get fucking captivated by the smell of a flower, but I remember the smell of the food your mother served us every day. I remember how grateful I felt to have you all. I was afraid I’d have to leave.”
He never had anything.
He wasn’t just beaten, mistreated, or starved by his parents.
Everything in his life was borrowed.
The house he lived in—because it was ours—and a family.
Can I make that real? Can I turn this marriage into something more than a temporary arrangement?
Lucifer said he’s never wanted a relationship, but would he want a long-term one withme? Because even I, as insecure as I am about whether the man I’ve always loved could ever want me too, know that what happened last night wasn’t just sex.
Overwhelmed with so many thoughts and memories rushing in at once, I start making breakfast, though at this point, it’s closer to lunch, since it’s nearly eleven.
He was still completely out when I left the bedroom, which is another thing that doesn’t match what I remember from the past. I used to joke, back when he lived with us, that he never slept.
And now, even knowing he’s not alone in the house, he’s completely relaxed.
There has to be meaning behind that. If Lucifer isn’t “just anyone” in my life, the opposite is true, too.
Even if he doesn’t want to, even if he didn’t plan it, I’m here. And I’m not letting this opportunity slip away. I’ve got five years to make him fall in love with me.
“What are you cooking?” I hear his growl at my back, and for the second time in just a few hours, I jump with a startled cry, burning my hand in the process.
Chapter 31
I approached her silently, not because I intended to scare her, but because moving quietly is part of my nature. I’m the kind of man who can never draw attention to himself, and it’s not something I can just switch off because I’m home—in your home, with the woman who will be your wife today, if the paperwork is ready in time.
