CHAPTER 153: DARK ROMANCE

–Damon–

My wife’s cravings are not for everyone. Laura, for example, hates miso soup so much that she had to push away from the table. I had to pick every little bone from the salmon—yes, it was a salmon head, ridiculous and grand all at once—but she asked for the eyes, bright and glossy. They looked juicy to her; she smiled at them like they were a private joke between us.

"This is good," Deanne said, nodding with the satisfied air of someone who knows what she likes.

"Thank you," Chef Wally replied, appearing at the table with the careful, quiet pride of a man who lives by the rhythm of a kitchen. He helped me remove the eyes and the brain and the soft jelly from the salmon head, taking out the spikes with meticulous patience and laying the pieces on a plate like he was arranging a small, edible offering.

"I’m starting to love this," Alyssa said, scooping rice with her fingers and eating without utensils, the kind of abandon that made me want to laugh and protect her all at once.

"Good?" I asked, watching Livana. She hummed—soft, approving—so I took an eye, cracked it gently, and fed it to her. She ate slowly, savoring each texture as if cataloguing pleasure in her head. The sound was an intimate thing; I could read her satisfaction like a map.

Wally stood and handed me the plate filled with the soft meat and jelly. I fed my wife with the solemn reverence of a man offering the last thing he wanted to share. She leaned into each bite as if she were remembering the taste from some previous life.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Liva," Dad said, smiling. Livana’s mouth lifted into that sweet, unassuming smile that still made my chest constrict.

"I’m going to order whatever you and Laura crave," he added.

"Really?" Laura’s face bloomed. "Then, I want—" She paused, thinking. Dad waited with that indulgent patience old men are allowed to have. "Well," she shrugged. "I’ll tell you when I know."

Dad laughed, the sound warm and loud in the dining room. "Sure, dear. Just send me a message. Whatever it is, I’ll have someone pick it up from wherever it is in the country."

"Okay." Laura giggled like a child making a secret.

After dinner I took Livana for a walk through the maze garden, the hedges folding us into a private world. We stopped at the center—fountain, bench, the little pool reflecting moonlight. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and draped my cardigan over her like a small, protective net.

"Liva," I murmured.

"Hmm?"

"Do you love me?"

She didn’t answer for a long, soft minute. I let the silence settle—soft insect calls, the distant croak of frogs—until she finally spoke.

"Is that important?"

"To me? Of course." My voice was smaller than I intended. I waited because patience is a kind of devotion; waiting for her answer was worship.

She listened to the night like it could tell her what she needed to say. "Do you know that you made me crazy?"

"Why do you love me if I make you crazy?" she asked.

"That’s the point," I said, leaning in until the warmth of her hair was a refuge. "It’s the thrill. I get addicted to you. From the first night when you told me to take you—I couldn’t stop. I know you were drugged and I was just there to help, but Liva... I can’t get enough. Even now, as your husband. I don’t think I could live if I lost you."

"Are you going to kill yourself?" she asked, the question blunt and half-teasing, half-worried.

"Maybe. Take me with you, if you will," I said, a grin hiding in the dark of my voice.

"How about your child or children?" Her eyes on me were steady, practical.

"They can live without us," I said, and I could hear how awful that sounded in the quiet. It was true and selfish all at once. I would choose our two halves before anything else. I would choose her.

"I’m not going to die," she scoffed. "Stop that nonsense, Damon. It’s not funny."

I rubbed her arm—tender, possessive—thinking of the time I nearly lost her once, twice, three times. Each brush of memory was a blade that nearly cut me open. Losing her meant losing myself; I would not survive as a man without the axis around which my life turned.

"I’m serious," I chuckled, reaching toward her belly without thinking. There was no bump yet, only the slow, insistent forming of something irrevocable. I got down on my knee in the grass and pressed my face to her stomach. She smelled like sanctity—like rain and old books and the exact perfume of home. Heaven, concentrated.

Beyond the night’s orchestra, one steady, miraculous sound held my attention: the child’s heartbeat. Strong. It was my son or daughter—strong like their mother. Gender mattered little; I would spoil a daughter until she learned to be ruthless with gifts, and I would teach a son the art of worship. Both would be mine.

Livana’s hand found my head and threaded through my hair, fingertips light as vows. I could sleep in that small, constant motion and never wake. Her touch settled me better than any drug.

"Damon, let’s go to bed. I want to brush my teeth," she said, practical as ever.

"A moment." I kissed her belly again, a whisper of a promise, then planted a teasing kiss on her chest.

"Damon." The warning in her voice was gentle.

"Sorry," I laughed. We stood, and I carried her back to the mansion—she felt like a feather in my arms, lighter than any worry. I thought, selfishly, that she should eat more; she needed to keep her strength to keep me whole.

I helped her brush her teeth and wash her face, helped her into a nightie soft as breath. We were about to climb into bed—finally, at last—when a knock splintered the quiet.

"Liva, I need to talk to you." Deanne breezed in with all the casual brusqueness of a woman who thinks herself indispensable.

"Hmm." Livana hummed. "Damon, let me speak with Deanne. Can you ask Chef Wally for some midnight snacks?"

I glared at Deanne—the look sharp and dangerous as any blade. Her smile didn’t falter. "I think the best midnight snack would be mango with shrimp paste," she said, as if making declarations could rearrange the tides.

"We don’t have that. It’s out of season." I answered, the domesticity of the exchange a thin veil over my irritation. "Are you pregnant?" Deanne asked suddenly, then laughed at her own question.

"No." Deanne scoffed. "Just go and get it."

That woman. She moved through the room like a wind that wanted secrets. I knew the errands and whispered conversations that made her visits necessary—Underground matters. Things that circled like vultures around our lives. I wanted to protect Livana from every intrusion, from every word that might scrape at the fragile peace we’d built. I wanted, more than anything, to close the doors and keep the world away.

But she smiled at my wife with that practiced warmth, lowering her voice into hushed tones. That was my cue to step out, leaving them to their private conversation, and head downstairs.

In the living room, I found Wally sitting comfortably while one of our maids—skilled with her hands—was giving him a massage. I dropped into the seat across from him and signaled to the butler as he approached.

"A glass of whiskey on the rocks, please."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." I exhaled heavily, picking up Wally’s notebook filled with his neatly planned meals. Flipping through it, I muttered, "They’re craving Indian mango or carabao mango with shrimp paste."

Wally shook his head. "We’ve got mangoes, but they’re ripe and yellow. Not the green ones you need for that."

I sighed, sinking back into my chair. "Chef, if Deanne turns out to be pregnant, I’m afraid your entire meal plan is about to be ruined."

Wally’s own sigh escaped him, and his gaze drifted toward the maid. Just then, Jane walked in and slid into the seat beside us.

"Boss, should we castrate Caine and Kai?" she asked with such casualness that I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the room.

"Nah," I said, still grinning. "We need the bloodline. But damn, I do feel sorry for Chef Wally here."

Jane chuckled softly, her eyes glinting. "Don’t worry, I’ll help adjust the meal plan," she assured. "And as for Miss Livana, we don’t have to worry. She’s recovering so fast."

Her words eased something in me, and I couldn’t help but smile. "Thank you. But... what about her sight?"

Jane’s laughter faded, replaced by silence. Her gaze turned thoughtful, heavy, as if she was weighing what she could say against what she must keep hidden. She knew something—that much was clear. But loyalty bound her tongue. And loyalty, in this house, belonged to my wife above all.