CHAPTER 152: DEVIL IN DISGUISE

–Damon–

Blood crusted the seams of my palm and darkened the fabric at my sleeves. I had given them time—time to beg, time to understand what their screams tasted like—because answers needed to be earned. I did not kill cleanly. I made sure their last moments were unforgettable, precise in cruelty; a slow ledger paid in bone and bone-deep regret. They had hurt my wife. For that, they received more than they deserved. For that, they received tenfold. For that, they received what they could not imagine.

Now she carried our child. So the debt multiplied itself in my head until it glowed: every hand that reached for her would be broken into a dozen pieces first.

Before I went home, I had to be washed. The soap was a promise I made to myself—scrub until the blood became memory, until my skin felt like a person again. Then I would stop by the open café and buy small cakes, one of every flavor, because some rituals survive brutality: sweetness for the quiet hours, crumbs on lips, the ridiculous, domestic ordinary that kept her alive.

The house smelled like lemon polish and the soft musk of lavender from the hallway diffuser. Livana sat on the sofa, a bandage bonnet tucked at the hairline, head tipped back on a pillow. Mom was at her side, humming quietly as she trimmed a nail. The sight of them—gentle, domestic, untouched by the day I had carved—made my stride stall.

She had washed her hair already. But the silky waterfall I knew so well was gone, cut short in layered grace just above her shoulders. It suited her more cruelly than I expected; she looked different and still ravishing enough to make me forget my knives for a second.

"What did you do to your hair?" I managed.

"I had it cut," she said like she was naming the weather.

It was the smallest confession and it sent heat through me. I had imagined her with a veil, with braids, with glass-still hair. She turned that image inside out with a pair of scissors and smiled.

"I bought a lot of cake." I sat beside her. The paper bag crinkled under my hand. A faint sweetness hit us—vanilla, chocolate, roasted pistachio—small comforts after the iron taste that lingered in my mouth.

"Did you just bathe before coming home?" she asked, and Mom snickered in a way that made the corner of my mouth twitch.

"Ah." I let the grin come easy. "Are you—suspecting me?"

"Did you sleep with someone else that easily, since you can’t make love with me?" Her voice kept the edge of teasing even when she sounded tired. I laughed, soft and dangerous.

"If you caught me cheating, I would let you beat me," I said, and kissed the curve of her cheek. The skin there was warm and familiar as the softest cloth. "I’d earn it."

She kept her eyes closed. "What about the cakes?"

I indicated the maid. "Prepare a slice of each."

Mom of course leaned forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. "So, what did you get, dear?" she asked, meaning the information I’d spent the day bleeding for.

"I found a lot. Not the mastermind, though." My voice flattened. I took Livana’s right hand in mine—her left was being fussed over by Mom—and kissed the knuckles. Her skin under my mouth was thin and alive, and the smell of her—laundry, citrus soap, the faint herb from a cream—anchored something inside me.

"What have you been doing all day, Liva?" I asked, watching the small rise and fall of her chest.

"Hmm." She answered like someone speaking through a dream. "Sleeping, eating... getting pampered."

I let out a short laugh and a breath that felt like surrender. I didn’t want to leave her; every patrol of my mind protested. But the world still demanded reckoning. The hunger for answers whispered.

"You are all set," Mom announced, putting away the clippers. The cakes arrived on the coffee table, each slice a miniature island of frosting and crust. I picked one up and nudged it to her nose.

"It’s pistachio with chocolate," I said, and scooped a small forkful to her lips. She hummed, appreciative. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah. More." The single word was soft, and it made something in me unclench.

I fed her another bite, then another, until she had tasted five different flavors—pistachio, lemon custard, dark chocolate, strawberry mousse, and something with caramel that made her close her eyes. She finished each slice like she was stealing a little joy back from the day.

"Okay, I’m full," she announced finally, cheeks flushed.

I laughed at her protest. "Babe, you finished all of them."

"Oh, come on," she murmured, the energy spent. I leaned forward and kissed her, slow and greedy. She met me, and for the space of that kiss the edges of the world dulled.

"I’ll take you to our room," I said, lifting her without ceremony. She was light in my arms, weightless as forgiveness. On the stairs she pressed her face to my chest, breath hot and small.

"Tell Chef Wally I want a tuna head in miso soup," she said, practical even in the haze.

"Okay." I nipped at her temple. Chef Wally, who’d been hovering and tasting cake, brightened when I called his name. "You heard that, Chef?"

"Coming right up," he said, with the dutiful cheer of someone whose life is service.

Upstairs I shut the door and stripped off the smell of the day—my jacket, my shirt—stuffing them away like unwanted memories. I slid into comfortable pajamas and crawled into bed. I bent down and kissed the curve of her belly, a private altar I visited without thinking.

"Hello, baby," I murmured. The word felt ridiculous and holy all at once.

"Oh, you’re talking to my belly," she said, sardonic and fond. I chuckled. She placed her palm over my face, soft and immediate, as if claiming me.

"Don’t be jealous," I whispered as I crawled over her, pressing my mouth to hers. "You are my very first love."

She tucked her hand under my jaw. "Tell me what happened."

I told her, not every cutting detail—it’s strange how some things are better left as a shadow—but the important parts. "Someone else bought their service. We’re tracing the money and the hands that signed the checks. We suspected Tyrona, but she wouldn’t hire people like that... not directly. She’s dangerous in other ways."

"You are right. Tyrona almost successfully killed me." Her voice went small at that, memory flaring.

"Don’t worry, love," I said, the words wrapped in the barbed promise I lived by. "Those bastards are already in hell."

She closed her eyes again. "Wake me when my salmon in miso soup is ready," she mumbled, drifting.

I reached for my phone and texted Laura to wake us when dinner was ready. Then I lay down beside her. She turned toward me, as if magnetized, and snuggled into my chest—tiny, warm, wholly hers. The weight of her against me was a living thing I could cradle.

"Someone’s being clingy," I whispered, wrapping my left arm around her and rubbing slow circles on her back.

"Shut up," she breathed, but her tone betrayed pleasure.

I smiled into her hair. I liked this. Maybe it was instinct—maybe it was something more tender, more ridiculous. A clingy Livana made the edges of my life softer, and I would go crazy all over again if it went further. Hell, I already did, when she had her orgasms; the memory of her tremors was a private vice. But for now, with her hair short and a cake crumb at the corner of her mouth and a baby growing inside her, the house felt like a fortress worth defending with blood if necessary.

I let myself fall with her, into sleep threaded with the plans I would make in the dark: lists of names, maps, a quiet, patient hunger that would not stop until everything that threatened her was ash.

–Sophia–

Damon looks dangerous. Like, legit dangerous. Sometimes he’s funny—if he actually likes you, which is rare—but most of the time he’s just... terrifying. His name even rhymes with demon. One letter off. That can’t be a coincidence. And honestly? He earns it. I mean, yeah, he tortured those guys, strung them along with fake promises like, "I’ll let you live if you talk." But, spoiler alert—they didn’t live. Not a single one.

The last one? Damon gave him a head surgery. Without anesthesia. Like... who does that? It’s not like the guy needed brain surgery. Damon just... decided. Because he’s a devil in disguise, and apparently that’s his version of justice. His men are cleaning up the mess now, scrubbing blood off floors, making bodies disappear, whatever. And the CIA—or FBI, or MI6, or some alphabet soup agency—is on his tail, so yeah, we need to keep it low-key. Because let’s face it, what we’re doing here? Super illegal. Manslaughter, murder—you name it, we’ve probably checked it off the list.

"Damn," I muttered, still replaying the whole bloody performance in my head.

"It’s Livana," Kai said. His voice was steady, like he wasn’t fazed at all. "If I were him, I’d do the same."

And then, out of nowhere, he kissed me. Just swooped in and pressed his lips to mine. I panicked inside like the awkward teenager I used to be, heart beating way too fast, but somehow I managed to kiss him back without totally squealing.

"Oh, please! Have some decency for the dead people!" Deanne groaned, throwing her hands up.

That just made me giggle. I leaned against Kai, snuggling into his chest like I couldn’t help it. Because honestly? I couldn’t.

"We have to evacuate," Francis cut in, voice low and serious. Always the practical one.

Kai tugged the hood of my jacket over my head, brushing my hair out of my face as he did it. That stupidly sweet gesture made me bite my lip, trying not to grin like an idiot.

Francis looked stiff, uncomfortable, like he was carrying something heavy that wasn’t just about Damon’s little torture session. I pressed my lips together, hesitating. I knew I had to talk to him sooner or later. About us. About the weird tension. About closure.

Probably. Maybe. If I didn’t chicken out first.