Page 51 of Dragonfly

What makes it sting a little more is how it’s not like he didn’t have time to tell me that his entire Family—plus those affiliated with the Dragonflies, like Dr. Liz—was throwing him this elaborate dinner. Because of his insistence that we share at least one meal a day before I inevitably end up sleeping beside him in either his bed or my cot, he could’ve mentioned it at any point.

He didn’t—and that’s why I’m so confused when Damien arrives home on the afternoon of the party, frowning when he finds me watching the next episode of a series I’ve been binging on his big television.

In his arms, he’s holding a dry-cleaning bag that’s probably his outfit for tonight. Because, knowing my new husband, he probably had to get another black suit for the occasion.

“Savannah? Why haven’t you gotten ready yet?”

I’m wearing a sweater and jeans, my hair pulled back in a ponytail because I’ll be damned if I try to get myself all dolled up. I’m already having a hard time not falling for his charm—which, I’m sure, is part of his plan… to make me not only give up my plan of revenge, but to actually start liking him a little before he decides his fun is over and he finishes me off. To give him a reason to start his seductive, sexual onslaught?

No, thanks.

But he seems so surprised that I’m vegging out, I almost feel bad for him. “Why would I be getting ready?”

It’s not like I’m invited to this dinner?—

“Because we have to leave in two hours to be on time. Here. I stopped in early to make sure you have this.”

Ignoring how he seems to think I’m going anywhere with him, I’m curious enough to take the dry-cleaning bag from him. I honestly thought it was a suit, especially when I could see the black material through plastic, but once I unzip it, it’s obvious it’s not a suit.

It’s a strapless black cocktail dress—and it’s just my size.

I glance up at him. “What’s this for?”

“Dinner. Since this is the first time you’ll be meeting some of the other members of my Family, I thought it called for something special.”

His matter-of-fact answer has me confused now.

“Wait? Why? You think I’m going to it?”

Damien’s lips thin. “You’re my wife. Where else would you be?”

“I dunno.” Where else would I be? With the tracker in my arm and eyes watching my every fucking move…. “Here. With Orion.”

For some reason, that answer only seems to piss him off more.

“Our cook has the afternoon and evening off. So does Frankie and Annette. Vin will be at the dinner. Genevieve, too. Is this your way of trying to leave me? Stay behind and escape? Because I should remind you, my dear… I can always find you.”

Trust me. I don’t need the reminder.

“Hey. Don’t be an ass. I didn’t think you wanted me there.” Just in case it isn’t clear… “You never told me about it.”

“Why would I? My sister told me that she did.”

No. Genevieve mentioned it, then we got distracted trying find a can of pumpkin puree to help Orion poop. That ended with Damien’s cook calling someone up to make a trip to the store, bringing us a can so that Genevieve could feed spoonfuls of the dark orange mush to Orion by hand.

He had a monster shit that night, and a tentative friendship between Genevieve and I was formed.

So long as I understand she’ll use her powerful ballerina legs to kick the shit out of me if I ever try to hurt her big brother again, and she gets that I’ll let her play with Orion, but she better never hurt him, we’re good.

Plus, she’s the one who turned me onto this new show. When she’s taking breaks from rehearsing upstairs—or when her ankle injury flares up—she usually comes down to the second floor, plops onto the couch with me and Orion in Damien’s big television room, and asks perkily, “So, what are are we watching today?”

The dinner? Hasn’t come up, and I was struggling with why I was feeling so rejected for not getting an invite, I didn’t have time to mention it to Gen.

I don’t want to explain all of that to Damien. Honestly, I don’t own him an explanation, either. Just because he thought Gen brought it up to me, that doesn’t excuse him from doing the same.

I think he comes to that same conclusion at the same time. He sighs. “A miscommunication on my part, then. But that doesn’t change things. I want you at the dinner. You will join me.” He gestures at the dress in my lap. “And you will wear that.”

You know what? I will. For two reasons, too. One: I haven’t been out of the house since Frankie caught me trying to hop the gate; even then, that doesn’t really count because I never even got off the property. I’m not planning to run or anything—especially since I’m sure Damien will have at least a few someones watching me—but if the opportunity provides itself, you never know. And two: I still haven’t put on all of my weight back, but I still think I can rock this dress.

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