Page 21 of Dragonfly

I don’t think he’s a moron, but I just might be. Despite the way he come on to me in the alley before I stabbed him, it never occurred to me that he might have some kind of sexual motivation behind this forced marriage. But when he says he’s taking his wife home…

I gulp. He doesn’t mean my apartment, does he?

He doesn’t.

It’s a twenty-minute ride back across time, and I spent every single fucking one of them wondering if it would be worth it to open the backseat door and dive out in the road before we make it to Damien’s manor.

I think he could tell. At the very least, he instructed Vincent to sit in the back with me while he drove, almost as if he expected me to make a break for it and knew the big guy would be up to the task of stopping me.

I’m even more confused about his motivations now. After seeing him with that blonde for so many months, I was convinced he was in a relationship. Even if he wasn’t, his good looks, his money, and his power have got to be one hell of an aphrodisiac. I hate him for what his gang did to me, and even I can’t help but be a little physically attracted to him.

Does that mean I want to marry him? That I want to fuck him?

Hell, no. But there’s got to be countless women who would. He doesn’t need to blackmail a woman into marrying him just to get laid. Especially not one who is responsible for the hole in his side, but that doesn’t change the fact that—according to Judge Callahan, at least—I’m not Damien Libellula’s wife.

And now I’m pulling up to the house that, only this morning, I would’ve given anything to get inside…

I knew his house was big. Even after I saw Judge Callahan’s ritzy home, it didn’t compare to Damien’s.

Now I can say that his house is even more massive up close.

Thanks to the locked gate that surrounds the entire place, I could never get near enough to really check it out. It’s always reminded me of the White House because of the pristine paneling that covers it, plus the intimidating gate that kept the rest of Springfield out. Instead of being super wide, it’s taller, though the buildings bracketing the outer reach of the fence dwarf it. It’s set back a bit, too, almost like it’s too good to be part of the city.

But that’s the thing. The skyscrapers in this part of the East End have, like, thirty floors compared to Libellula’s three. How many people make their homes in those apartment, crammed into tiny spaces like mine? And here’s the head of the Dragonflies taking up all this space just for him.

As if I couldn’t hate him and what he stands for any more, having his big brute of a bodyguard enter the alarm code—those broad shoulders blocking me from seeing what numbers he punched in—before driving us down the length of the circular drive that brings us to the front steps.

He parks, and Damien shakes his head just enough to be noticeable.

“Bring the car to the garage,” he says. “I’ll get my wife settled in.”

My wife.

My wife.

My. Wife.

I’m seconds away from spiraling. The more he repeats that—my wife—the more it’s beginning to sink in that I agreed to this. I married him. And now… now he plans on bringing inside his house to… what?

I don’t know, and I’m terrified to find out.

I won’t let him see that, though. I won’t let him see how much being near him gets to me. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction of seeing that he’s rattled me…

Pull it together, Savannah. Remember who you’re supposed to be. Keep the accent, don’t act bothered at all. Don’t give him any excuse to change his mind before you cand find a way out of this…

Damien gets out of his side of the car, then turns and opens my door for me.

My stomach tightens. I know better than to think he’s being a gentleman, holding up the door. This is a reminder that I fucked-up, I failed, and until I can get my hands on a weapon again, I have to go through this farce.

So when Damien offers me his hand to help me scoot out of the backseat, I pretend not to notice.

He lets me, though when he grabs my elbow to lead me inside and I shake him off, he pauses, thins his lips, and takes my elbow again.

He doesn’t squeeze it. There’s no warning gesture. He just lays his hand lightly on my elbow and I know that, no matter how many times I try to shake him off, he will stubbornly take hold again and again.

It’s not worth the fight. Not when I still don’t have any idea what game he’s trying to play.

Once he disarms the alarm, letting us into the house, it takes every ounce of resolve I have not to gape at my surroundings. The outside was magnificent on purpose—a statement to his power and his wealth—but if I thought the inside would be understated even a little, I’m fucking wrong.

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