CHAPTER 158: TREACHEROUS

–Damon–

My wife is exquisite. Merciful, too—always willing to ease the pressure that builds inside me. She undressed for me and touched me where I am most vulnerable, probably because she felt sorry for me. I don’t want her to go further, but she seemed aroused as well. Damn it. I hate when I can’t make her tremble properly. And yet I know an orgasm could bring on that terrible, throbbing headache.

"You know you can use the toy I ordered especially for you," she says, fussing with the hem of her dress.

I sigh and nod.

"Come on—touch me, husband. But you know the doctor forbade this." Her voice is soft, teasing; there’s that mischievous curve at the end that always makes my chest ache.

"I know." I press my mouth to hers.

"I already charged it." She smirks. Damn her. She tempts me like it’s a sport.

I clean the toy carefully, take the lube, and glance down at my manhood. Still hard. A handjob isn’t enough. I know what it wants, but I won’t hurt her for my own relief.

She lies on her back, eyes closed, and when I sit at the side of the bed, she reaches up for me.

"Kiss me." It’s not a plea—it’s a demand.

I bend and kiss her. Her left hand threads through the back of my hair, deepening the kiss, while the other reaches lower. Unexpected. Horny after surgery? Unusual. Hormones playing tricks? Or is she simply dangerous in ways I haven’t cataloged yet?

She tugs the back of my hair, breaking the kiss. "Now I want to hear that toy pleasing you."

"What?" I laugh—a low, surprised sound. My elegant, demure, graceful wife... dominant? Are we suddenly role-playing? She, who always moves like polished porcelain, has gone sharp and reckless.

"You’ll have to wait about five months before we can fuck again."

"Uhhhh." I look at the toy and the lube in my hand. "You’re right."

I’ll be gone for a month to Spain, then to Switzerland to secure funds for my family. I need distance from Interpol’s prying eyes. Every secret agency in the world still lurks. I don’t expect to come back quickly. I want to stay, to linger in the quiet of this bed, but she insists we finish our arrangements before the baby comes. She’s right—we have to close every loose end. Those bastards tailing me would gladly use me for Livana as bait. That thought keeps me careful, keeps me sharp.

Livana gives me pleasure and a kind of peace I haven’t found elsewhere. It’s been—what—two weeks since the accident? It’s maddening to be starved of her for so long.

Menstruation used to be torture. One week of chill, of icy looks that cut deeper than any argument. She’s a monster then—cold as cut glass, silent rage curling in her gaze. It always made me harder. It always made me come.

I don’t notice when I drift off after the third game. I wake to her hand taking the toy from my manhood, which I forgot to remove. She snuggles close, and my arms find her without thinking.

My alarm drags me awake. I don’t want to leave, but she taps my shoulder. I sit up, lean down, and shower her face with kisses. She falls asleep again as I go to the bathroom to prep for my flight.

Dressed, I skip cologne. I go to her and kiss her—then plant a kiss on the small bump of her belly.

"I’ll walk you out," she insists, reaching for her walking stick.

"No. Stay."

"Is your mistress waiting outside?" she asks with a sneer that makes me laugh. Her voice—so sharp, so teasing—catches me off guard.

We head downstairs and find Caine waiting—my lover, for show.

"Hey, babe!" I call at Caine, grinning to keep the game that she started. Caine spits his coffee.

"What the fuck?" he snaps. "Don’t scare me like that!"

Livana chuckles.

"It’s too early for games, Damon. Did you sleep well? Is that why you’re in the mood for jokes?" Caine teased.

"Yeah, you could say that." I hand my bag to the butler.

"What the—your wife’s in her first trimester and she’s also injured." Caine scolds, half outraged, half scandalized.

"Oh, come on. Do you really think I’d let Damon fuck me like a whore when I’m pregnant and hurt?" Livana replies, voice not at all the prim, elegant tone she usually wears.

"Oh, you’re right." Caine laughs, and I roll my eyes.

"Take care. Don’t fuck up," Livana adds. I grin and press another kiss to her. I don’t expect Caine to go fawning over Deanne in her running gear, who just came out of nowhere. I ignore the coupling and kneel to press my lips to my wife’s belly.

Once we leave the residence, I finally sip the coffee Caine shoved at me—double-walled ceramic, still too hot.

"This will be dangerous for us, Damon," Caine reminds me. "We can’t die or get caught."

"Yes, I know." I rub my temple. Sleep is short, my head full. I worry about leaving her, but I know she’s sharp and will be fine. Still, every step away from her is a small death. Every mile is the slow unspooling of restraint. I want to be with her. I want to keep her close. I want—insistently, selfishly—to fall into her again and again until we both forget the world outside our bed.

–Livana–

It has been a week since my husband left. Now, it is time for me to move out of the Blackwell residence. I cannot move as freely there, not with so many eyes on me—maids, nurses, relatives—hovering over me as though I were fragile glass, convinced I am crippled because of my blindness. Their pity suffocates me. Instead of returning to my own mansion, I chose to settle here, in Damon’s estate.

The sunglasses rest on the bridge of my nose, a thin veil that shields more than just my eyes. I turn my head slowly, savoring the hushed elegance of the place. Damon’s men stand guard around the mansion, though their quarters are set apart from the main house. I brought Jane and Deanne with me. Sophia, however, remains in Italy, commanding our men there. My husband must not find himself ensnared in chaos; I will see to that.

"Deanne," I called softly.

"Yes?"

"Disconnect their camera from the main mansion. Keep only the balcony view and the outside cameras running." I lowered myself onto the sofa, releasing a restrained sigh.

"Any cravings?" Jane asked, her voice gentle, almost motherly.

"Hmm." I let the thought linger, savoring the roll of possibilities on my tongue. "Salmon. Honey-garlic glaze with rice." I tilted my head slightly. "And... a burnt cheesecake. Can we manage that?"

"Ohhh," Deanne perked up, settling into the seat across from me. "I’d love some of that cheesecake." Her grin was quick and playful.

"Certainly. We are all craving burnt cheesecake, it seems." Jane agreed, and I smiled faintly.

Deanne’s fingers danced across her laptop before she reached for a sleek briefcase. Inside lay a heavy-duty device Louie had supplied me, one capable of prying into the heart of secrets. She placed it before me, and I bent forward, my own hands gliding across the keys. Louie’s trail was clear. CEO now, and diligently hunting for every fragment of evidence to bring down Casey. That aunt of mine would soon drown in despair.

I wondered how Father would react. Gregory—so blind in his affection for Casey. And my mother? Did she truly love him once, or was her devotion another mask, another performance for the family’s sake?

I had gone as far as DNA tests, with Father and with Laura. A foolish hope that perhaps Gregory was not mine. But fate was unkind—he is indeed my biological father. How satisfying it would have been if Mother had betrayed him in return. Yet, she never stooped to such filth. She was not that kind of woman.

"Deanne," I sighed, the sound soft but weighted. "Do you think my mother ever loved my father?"

Her brows furrowed. "Isn’t Gregory your bio dad?"

"Unfortunately." I nodded faintly.

"Well, did you ever see your mom cry over his affairs?"

"No. She was cold. Unbothered. As if nothing pierced her." I shrugged delicately. "I never knew what she thought."

"Then she didn’t love him. She probably just used him as a sperm donor."

I let the silence stretch before I murmured, "Perhaps."

"Which side of the family did you inherit your condition from?" she asked. My albinism. My rare violet eyes.

"My grandmother Olivia’s line. Did you know her sister was half albino? Truly half—her left eye was black like their father’s, her right violet like mine. Half her hair was dark, the other half blond. She carried contradiction like a birthmark."

"That’s fascinating," Deanne hummed. "But you’re lucky you didn’t inherit your father’s stupidity."

"I agree," I said smoothly.

A soft chime broke the moment. The heavy-duty device pulsed with a notification. Deanne shifted to sit beside me. I pressed play.

The scene was painfully familiar—the Carrington residence. The cameras there had no audio, but one of my cats’ nanny cams picked up more than images.

My mother and Aunt Carrie appeared, locked in an argument. At first, the words blurred into static, but then my name sharpened on Carrie’s lips.

"Do you really think your daughter is that great? She’s a murderer." Her voice was unhinged, soaked in venom. "Give me half your shares and I’ll keep quiet."

My mother—always poised, untouchable—suddenly slapped her across the face.

"I don’t care if you call my daughter a murderer. But never threaten me with my company’s shares, you bastard." Her voice rang strong, like a blade drawn. I had missed that sound.

Carrie lashed back, shrieking. They fought like wild creatures—hair pulled, nails raked. I could not fathom why Mother did not use her martial arts, why she allowed the chaos to devolve so low. Perhaps she knew Carrie could never truly match her, not until...

Carrie tumbled from the loft, her body crashing below.

Deanne gasped, jumping in shock. I, however, did not flinch. My eyes stayed unblinking, fixed on the sight. Carrie’s body writhed, heaving for breath.

Then Father entered the frame. He ran to Carrie, gathered her in his arms, and comforted her.

My teeth clenched. Treacherous bastard. Always hers. Always choosing her.