CHAPTER 166: MATCH MAKER

–Livana–

It had been almost two months since Damon left the country. Two months of distance, silence, and calculation. They had to be quarantined, of course—Europe clings to its invisible viruses and bacteria like perfume, and I refuse to let my husband bring any of it home to me. He’s clingy by nature. I won’t risk myself or our heir to one of his reckless embraces.

But more than two months of quietly monitoring him, combing through traces of his operations, ensuring no trail of his darker dealings reached the surface—that was the real contagion. A pain in the ass, but necessary. Luckily, Logan and Jane have been my hands and eyes in his absence.

The mansion has become my fortress these past few weeks. I’ve been sleeping, eating, working here—conducting clean-ups, orchestrating quiet moves behind the scenes. Even blindfolded, I could walk these marble halls without a misstep. The scent of fresh-cut roses in the foyer, the faint citrus of Jane’s cleaning polish on the banister, the warm drift of Chef Wally’s morning bread—all of it maps the house for me.

Wally finally joined us last week, which means Jane can breathe again. Logan occasionally cooks, though his food tastes like battle plans—sharp, efficient, but never tender—and he spends most of his time handling remote commands for our underground networks.

"I still can’t believe you’ve quarantined your husband and the others for a week," Logan muttered earlier, his voice carrying that mix of exasperation and admiration. "Possibly either Sophia or Deanne is already pregnant."

Quarantine is already over. Logan has a talent for missing the obvious. They arrived sooner than expected.

"That would be perfect. More heirs for us," I said, my tone smooth, almost bored.

I could feel Logan staring at me. If his silence had a word, it would be unbelievable. He didn’t dare say it aloud.

I tilted my head slightly, feigning casualness, though I could feel the cool air shift where his gaze was.

"Whatever, Livana," he finally said. "If the four of you went into labor at the same time—or the same year—damn. That’s a workload for me."

"If you’re worried about leaves, why not impregnate someone too? Just to be fair." I smiled faintly, turning my face just off his direction so it seemed unintentional.

"Stop teasing me or talking nonsense." He scoffed. "I’m going to a club tonight. Don’t bother me."

"Take Jane with you. She needs to have some fun too."

"Are you serious? We can’t leave you alone in this gigantic mansion."

"I’m fine. Security’s tighter than ever. In fact," I said lightly, "take Chef Wally with you as well." My voice sharpened just slightly as I added, "That’s right. You three should go out and enjoy yourselves."

I could almost hear the way Logan squinted at me, his disbelief like heat against my cheek. This mansion feels empty only to the weak. To me, it’s a citadel. The last ambush had traitors written all over it. Those assassins are dust now.

"No," Logan said at last. "I’ll cancel my clubbing."

"No, I insist." My voice was velvet, but my will was iron. "I don’t want to be bothered tonight."

He rolled his eyes, and I heard the clink of glass—brandy, already poured. He’s been drinking. He won’t drive. Good.

"Logan, come on," I said softly. "Don’t you think I deserve a quiet evening?"

He scoffed. "Stop it, Livana. Assassins are still all over you—"

"Livana!" Damon’s deep voice cut through the room, unexpectedly warm.

I didn’t turn toward him. I let the sound wrap around me instead, a familiar vibration in the air.

"You said they were quarantined. How come they’re here early?" Logan asked, his tone halfway between surprise and betrayal.

"They were quarantined," I answered smoothly as Damon’s footsteps drew closer. The weight of his presence knelt beside me beside the sofa.

Logan scoffed dramatically, rising from his chair like an actor leaving the stage.

"So my job as your lover is over?"

The air darkened. Damon’s energy shifted—sharp, territorial. I didn’t have to look to know he was glaring at Logan. I kept my eyes soft, unfocused, the perfect imitation of blindness.

"What?" Damon’s voice rolled out like thunder.

"Well, we’ve been together every day for the past few weeks. I’ve been taking care of your wife while you’re away." Logan’s voice was teasing, but I knew he was provoking Damon on purpose.

"I’m going to fucking kill you!" Damon surged upward, but I placed my hand lightly on his arm, halting him with a gesture so subtle it might’ve been a caress.

Logan’s laughter rang, and somewhere in the background I heard Sophia scolding—or striking—him.

"Why is he spewing nonsense?" Damon grumbled, scooting closer to me, still kneeling. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pressing his face into my chest. "I missed you."

I smoothed my fingers along the back of his head, graceful, measured. "Your stomach is big."

He bent lower and kissed my abdomen. "Wow..."

"Okay, so the results for any virus or bacteria are negative," Caine announced as he sat casually with Deanne.

"Anyone pregnant in this room besides me?" I asked lightly. A long silence followed. "I think you all took two months off like a vacation and indulged in nonstop screwing while my husband was probably sulking in a corner somewhere being dramatic."

"You got it right," Sophia chimed in. "But no. We’re not pregnant."

"Ditto," Deanne replied lazily.

"I’ll be going to the club. I’ll take Jane and Wally," Logan declared.

I smirked as Damon nestled closer to me. "That’s good," I said, nodding once.

"Well, I think I’ll stay here," Jane murmured, setting a tray of snacks and refreshments on the coffee table.

"I have a big surprise for you," Damon said, kissing my hand.

"Have some refreshment," I told him, my voice soft but commanding. He obeyed instantly, like a trained hound. He sat beside me, picking at whatever Wally and Jane had prepared.

–Damon–

The moment I saw her, my body betrayed me. My blood surged, heat coiling low, and my cock hardened—almost painfully. It’s always like this with her. One glance, one breath, one movement of her graceful fingers, and I’m undone. She’s mine, my wife, my drug, my fever, my cure. She smells like temptation wrapped in silk—soft florals mixed with something warm and intimate. My very own aphrodisiac.

I drained the iced tea in one swallow, just to cool myself, then scooped her away from the others. I couldn’t stand another second of eyes on her. I wanted her alone, caged in my arms, breathing only my air.

"You smell fresh," she said softly.

I grinned at her, my pulse drumming. "I bathed before coming here. I visited home, and my mom sent me a lot of fresh seafood," I murmured, brushing my lips against her temple as I spoke.

With one arm still around her, I opened the bedroom door and eased her onto the bed, my hands trembling with restrained hunger. "I also spoke with Doctor Alice," I said, my voice dropping lower, darker. "She said it’s safe for us to make love." My grin widened; my brows lifted like a promise.

She raised her hand and touched my face with her fingertips—slowly, tenderly. She still wouldn’t look at me. She’s still blind. Part of me aches for her gaze. I want to see her eyes again—whether they hold disgust, hatred, or pleasure. Especially pleasure. Back in high school, I fed on every look she gave me, but the one that undid me, the one that’s carved into my memory, was the look she gave me that night—her lips parted, gasping for air, moaning my name as I moved inside her for the first time.

That night was ecstasy. And the morning after? Almost death. My failure to cut down the enemies circling her cost her blood, pain, and scars.

She cupped my face suddenly and pulled me into a kiss. My heart stopped. Damn it. Her lips—soft, hungry, tasting of home. I kissed her back, rougher, deeper, until she bit my lower lip and made me groan. Fuck. I love her when she’s fierce like this—sharp edges under silk.

But then I remembered. Her head. Her scar. The headaches. I forced myself to slow down, breaking the kiss. She looked puzzled as my hands moved to cradle her skull, feeling gently for the ridge that shouldn’t be there. It’s healed, but the memory of what they did to her still claws at me. They said after a year or two it would fade. The scar. The pain. Her hair would grow back and cover what’s left.

"Is it okay?" My voice cracked on the words.

"Yes," she said. "It’s been more than two months since my operation. Three and a half, maybe?"

I exhaled, my gaze sliding down her body. She was wearing a silk maxi dress, and it clung to her curves like a secret. It revealed just enough of her small, round belly to make me ache.

My eyes caught the flash of our old engagement ring on her finger. My throat tightened. My old claim. My first claim. Then I remembered the new gifts.

I got up and crossed the room to my luggage, fingers closing around the box. I brought it back and opened it before her. Her hand hovered over the necklace before I even spoke.

"A grand necklace," I murmured. Alexandrite, its stones shifting like trapped twilight.

She tilted her head, her voice soft. "There are mixed colors on the stones. Is it Alexandrite?"

Her synesthesia never stops dazzling me. She can’t see me, but she sees everything.

"Yes," I said. I took the necklace out, set the box aside, and fastened it around her neck.

"It’s heavy." She smiled faintly.

"The lace is platinum," I muttered, my thumb brushing her skin.

She slipped off the bed and stood in front of me, her fingers moving with deliberate grace. "Help me take off the dress," she whispered, her voice velvet and sin.

Every muscle in me tightened. My blood roared. The doctors had cleared her. Her OB had confirmed. She’s seducing me like a queen luring a knight to his doom, and I’m already lost.

"Husband," she called, and the word nearly broke me. I reached for her, helping her undress with reverence and hunger tangled together.

The dress slid down, pooling at her feet, and I froze. Her belly, round and perfect. Her breasts, fuller now, heavier, glowing with some secret light. Her skin—Christ—her skin looked like warm cream kissed by candlelight.

I stared, shameless, at a droplet of saliva at the corner of my mouth because she’s just that breathtaking.

"Oh, Livana..." My breath hitched, rough and reverent. My hands trembled as I reached out, every nerve in my body screaming to worship, to devour, to protect, to praise.