Page 20 of Christmas Mafia Prince
“You remembered.” I nod with a flush from the change in temperature. Or I’m just this flustered in the new setting I don’t belong in. The whole house smells like orange, cloves, and generational wealth.
Titus walks off as if he can’t bear to look at us being all lovey-dovey. Good. It means the fake husband act is working. Or is this real? I don’t even know anymore, because we’re alone, yet Damen kneels at my feet and replaces my boots with the slippers, all smiles whenever he looks up.
Is this what being in love should really feel like? Will he kiss me under the mistletoe next?
Everything feels so grand when he offers me his arm and leads me down a corridor full of yet more portraits. Those ancestors must be turning in their graves at the sight of me. We then go through a room larger than many houses I’ve been to. Flames are buzzing in the fireplace, despite there being no one to admire them, but the empty couches, chairs, and the little seat in front of a grand piano promise an incredible evening by the fire.
I’ve never been anywhere this opulent, and the thought that all this belongs to a single family when I’m living in an apartment not much bigger than the average van, builds a strange sensation deep inside. A part of me hates that being born into this kind of privilege must set a person up for life, while everyone else struggles, but I can’t give in to that feeling because this is Damen’s world, and he has been nothing but generous. How could I fault him for enjoying the wealth available to him?
So maybe it is too much. So maybe the world is cruel and unfair. Fuck knows, I’ve had my share of pain. But if he wants me here, and holds my hand as he leads me into the dining room where his family awaits, then maybe I deserve some happiness for once. Can I not have my Cinderella moment in my new outfit and on the arm of a man fit to be a prince? Do I really have to be Carrie instead?
“You okay?” Damen asks. “Remember you’re perfect the way you are. That’s how I want you. Don’t diminish yourself for them.”
I nod and take a deep breath of polished wood.
I settle into excitement and awe as we then walk along a corridor with marble on the floor, but then a set of doors is opened by a man in a uniform, and I’m facing a dining room with a table that could comfortably accommodate twenty people. Only ten faces turn our way, yet I’m ready to throw up from the stress of it all. I need a drink.
Titus, who’s leaning toward the arrangement of holly running through the middle of the table, straightens his back and gestures toward me. “See for yourself!”
My head feels like a balloon, but Damen is there to hold me up. “Oh, so you’ve spoiled my surprise? How typical of you.”
I wish there was music playing to fill the silence, but I don’t get that mercy and hear the creak of the chair when the father from the portrait at the entrance rises to his feet. He’s substantially older than in the picture. Dark hair turned steel gray, and there’s now more wrinkles on his face, but it’s the same man. My Damen’s father.
“Are you mocking us?” he roars, his voice echoing off the marble walls.
Chapter 8
Killian
Iwastoldthiswould happen.
Damen straight up told me his family will ‘hate me’, and seemed very happy about it, but it’s one thing to imagine myself trolling a group of stuck-up buffoons in their own home, and another to face them at their fancy mansion in the woods. They could bury me in the doghouse, and I’d never be heard of again, poor Whiskers adopted by Damen’s scar-faced cousin.
But isn’t this whole situation the perfect illustration of the butterfly effect? I dated the wrong guy, who then chased me into the arms of a handsome stranger who just happens to be a billionaire with a penchant for alternative guys and a grudge toward his family. Also, a murderer.
To top that off, said stranger is a demon in bed and treats me in a way that’s already hacked through all my defenses.
What were the odds?
I let Damen guide me deeper into a dining room that could have housed one of Marie Antoinette’s extravagant parties, the kind worthy of losing one’s head for, but as we’re about to reach two empty chairs across from the spot now taken by Titus, his father slams his fist on the table, making everyone’s cutlery sing.
“How dare you mock me and this family. Get out!” he adds, flinging his arm through the air in a gesture so over the top it belongs in the theatre. And yet, nothing about it is amusing. It speaks of power, and this man’s absolute trust that reality will bend to his will one way or another. Despite likely being in his sixties, he looks sturdy and muscular, like someone who enjoys physical exercise, and his lips, reminiscent of the ones I’ve been kissing for the past twenty-four hours, twist in distaste.
Titus nods and taps his own fist against the wood three times, his other hand resting on the shoulder of a modelesque blonde woman sitting at his side. That must be his wife, Bree, a former model and perfectionist. “Hear, hear! Finally, the voice of reason,” he says as if any of the strangers gathered around me spoke up in Damen’s defense.
I’m frozen to the floor when Damen pulls one of the chairs away from the table, and I only sit when he gives me a gentle nudge.
“I know, I should have introduced him first, but we eloped,” he says, calm as if his father was upset over getting the wrong filling in his sandwich.
“I said,get out!” the oldest Mr. Van der Horn shouts, shooting to his feet, but Damen pushes the chair against the backs of my legs, forcing me to sit down. I’ll need a drink, so I grab myself a glass of wine as soon as possible. Going by some of the frowns, they’re either upset I’m taking something in the first place,orthat I’m not waiting for staff to fill my glass.
“No. This is now our home too, and wewillstay. Was I not invited along with my partner?”
An older woman who sits opposite Mr. Van der Horn sighs. I’ve been briefed about all the people present at the mansion throughout the holidays, so it only takes me a second glance to recognize her as Damen’s mother, Juliana. Her red hair is in an elegant updo, and she scans me with piercing green eyes. She’s a bit younger than her husband, or addicted to plastic surgery. If it’s the latter, the work she had done is very discreet.
“You know that’s not what we meant, Damen…” she says with a pout.
The face of Damen’s father blooms with a reddish sheen. “Fine, I get your point Damen, you want a man, but you would not get married without my approval, so end this charade, and send this boy home before it’s too late”
