Page 34 of Dragonfly

As if on cue, an older man with a thick Springfield accent, a divot in his right cheek, and a suit that doesn’t hide his gone-to-seed build comes in next, carrying a covered tray. Damien gestures at the folding table. The man lays the tray down carefully before lifting the lid.

I see two plates: each with a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, thick bacon, and golden brown toast. Salt, pepper, and a ketchup bottle are one side of the tray, with forks, knifes, and two glasses of water closer to the middle.

“Thanks, Frankie. That’ll be all. Let the cook know I said it looks amazing.”

“Will do, boss.”

The suits are gone. The butler dude follows after them, tugging the door closed behind him.

And then it’s just Damien and me.

He takes one of the seats. Grabbing a rolled-up napkin I didn’t notice on the tray before, he snaps his wrist, then drops the napkin onto his lap.

He waves at the food before pointing at my seat.

“Sit down, Savannah. Eat with me.”

“I’m not hungry,” I lie.

“Let me make myself clear,” he says, his tone pleasant while his gaze shoots daggers at me. “If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s you lying to me. If you can’t be truthful, stay quiet.”

I can’t help myself.

“And if I tell you that I hate you?”

Damien doesn’t even bat an eye at that. “Then I’ll know you mean it.”

I glare at him, doing my best to ignore the delicious smells of bacon and butter wafting up from the plates even as I plop into the metal chair across from him. “I still want you dead for what you did to me.”

“You didn’t have to marry me, wife.”

Yes. Yes, I did. But that’s not what I mean, and eventually we’ll both know it. That’s assuming he doesn’t already. I tried to kill him before he forced me into this mockery of a marriage so there’s no way that’s what I’m referring to. I’m not going to tell him why I’ve spent the last year plotting his downfall, though. He backed me into agreeing not to turn on him when we’re in our bedroom. That’s all he’s getting out of me.

He pushes one of the plates closer to me. “You went to bed without any dinner last night. You will eat breakfast, and you will eat it with me.”

“You first.” Damien gives me a look, and I shrug. “How do I know you didn’t do something to it? Maybe you finally realized you could’ve died and this is your revenge. Watching me choke on poisoned toast.”

His expression goes flat. Without a word, he takes a piece of toast from my plate, bites it, chews it, then places it back down with a large bite-mark taken out of the bread as he swallows. He does the same for the scrambled eggs, half a piece of bacon, and finishes by popping an orange segment into his mouth.

Only when he’s done sampling everything on my plate does he grab his, scoot it closer to his side of the table, then start eating his own meal.

I know what he’s doing. He proved his point that my plate wasn’t messed with, and by eating his now, his is safe, too. I could probably demand either and he’d let me have it—so long as I eat.

And, honestly, I decide to eat the breakfast after all because the continuous glint in Damien’s eyes tells me that, if I don’t, he has no problem jerking open my mouth and shoving the food inside. Besides, I tried a hunger strike when I was in prison. Not only did I get threatened with more time for my insolence, but when I did get weak enough to eat, I got the scraps until the guards decided I’d been punished enough.

He finishes first, watching me as I choke down every bite.

TWELVE

LIFE

SAVANNAH

Asatisfied smirk finds its way to his face. “We will share at least one meal together in here every day. Most likely it will be dinner unless I have a meet I can’t miss, but the two of us will eat and talk. Get to know each other.”

“Isn’t that something you do before you get married?” I mutter, placing down my fork.

“There you go. The first thing you can learn about me is that I never do what anyone expects.”

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