Page 35 of Dragonfly

I glance over at the cot he has set up on the other side of his bed. “You mean like bringing that in here?”

“You’re getting it. You see, after I spoke to my sister last night, she made a very valid point.”

“That you shouldn’t expect the woman you threatened into marrying to want to fuck you right away?” I say sweetly.

Surprisingly, his eyes light up in amusement. “That I should expect you try to smother me with my pillow first chance you get if I push the issue.”

Huh. Smart sister. She probably will never get over watching her older brother get head—because if I wasn’t an only child, that’s something that would scar me for life—but at least she has a lot more sense than Damien does. “Okay. And?”

“I gave you a choice last night. Marry me or go to prison. Obviously, you said ‘I do’. This? This is another choice.”

“Choice?” I echo, even more suspicious than before. No way he’s saying that he gave me a bed of my own… right? “What do you mean, choice?”

“I’m not just going to make you sleep next to me. And I don’t mean sex, either. I mean giving you somewhere to sleep that isn’t the floor. So I arranged for a separate bed for you.”

I wrinkle my nose at it. I shouldn’t when you take into consideration what the bed in my apartment is like, but he has this bougie king-sized bed and I get a cot? “A dinky twin on a metal frame?”

“Of course. I didn’t say it was a good bed. I want you to join me in mine, Savannah, and why would you do that if I gave you one just as comfortable? It is better than the floor, I assure you.”

I guess we’ll see about that.

Once breakfast is done, he takes the tray out himself, leaving it in the hall by his door. After checking his phone for the time, he announces, “I have to go. But you? You will stay here.”

I assume he means in this bedroom. Thankfully, with the en suite bathroom right there, and the television mounted to the wall over the dead fireplace across from his bed, I have a toilet and entertainment. No phone. No computer or internet access, but at least I’m not left alone with just my thoughts.

And now I have my own bed to lay in, I’ll be a little more comfortable than I was last night.

Still, I don’t want him to think I’m happy about being made his prisoner. “For how long?”

“Hmm?”

I know he heard me. “I said, how long do you plan on keeping me here?”

The joke’s played out. If he thinks he can keep me here against my will only because he blackmailed me into that fake wedding BS? That’s fucking kidnapping. And, yeah, I doubt Mr. Dragonfly here gives a shit that he’s breaking the law. But does he really want to be responsible for me?

He thinks I agreed to this meaningless truce between us while we’re in this room. Hell, no. Once I accept that I have no choice of surviving being Damien Libellula’s wife, what’s to stop me from smothering him in his sleep? Using my goddamn panties to strangle him. Waiting for him to let down his guard enough that I can get close, get that knife, and finish what I started?

I might be a dead girl walking, but his days are numbered. He’s nowhere near as smart as the Springfield rumor mill suggests if he doesn’t realize that.

Then again, how much do you want to bet that he does? He does know, he just doesn’t care because he’s so sure that I’ll never be able to get a jump on him again, he’s already plotting some kind of insane future where I stay his wife.

Because I see it in that same glint. He doesn’t answer my question, but he doesn’t need to.

How long will I stay here?

Forever… or until death do us part, which is the one I’m banking on.

“Instead of answering any more of your questions, wife, I think it’s time you finally answer some of mine.”

Um. No. I don’t think I will.

“Where did you get the gun? The one with the snowflake on the bottom that Vin found in your purse.”

I fucking knew it! “Dunno.”

“Okay. Let’s try this one on for size. Why have you been following me? I’ve noticed it for months now. You have to have a reason, especially since you tried to gut me during our first interaction. Care to explain yourself?”

Through tight teeth, I grit out, “Not. Really.”

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