Page 135 of Sinful Sacrifice

I cough as the scent inundates the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” I question around another cough.

I eye him in suspicion as he stalks toward me. He stares down at me, his eyes intense, and without saying a word, he moves his spray-a-thon to me.

He sprays my hair first, then my neck, and then down my body until hitting my bare feet.

While it’s potent as hell, I breathe in the smell.

It reminds me of waking up next to him.

That smell accompanied every shared hug, kiss, lovemaking.

It smells like home.

“There,” he says, smoothing his hand over my hair as if I’m a finished product. “That should do.”

“That should do what?” I raise my shoulder and smell myself.

His dark eyes coast down my body, as if making certain he didn’t miss a spot.

He doesn’t speak until he’s finished his inspection. “If you’re around any other man in Boston, you’ll smell like me.” He smirks in satisfaction. “I’m a man who likes to mark his territory.” He inches closer, lowers his head, and runs his lips along my jawline. “And you, Pippa, are my goddamn territory.” Stepping back, he buttons his blazer. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow to take you back to New York.”

“I’m not riding home with you,” I correct, crossing my arms as he eases around me. “Igor is taking me back.”

“If I say I’m taking you home tomorrow, I’m taking you home.” He knocks his knuckles against the door. “Lock this behind me. Have dreams of how good I eat your pussy. Good night, my sweet dancer.”

While I’ll publicly take it to my grave I didn’t say this, I slept pretty damn well last night.

Cernach might be a grade-A asshole, but he didn’t skimp on providing comfortable sleeping arrangements for his visitors.

I woke up this morning in a cloud of Damien’s scent. It was just as strong as when I’d gone to bed. I took a thirty-minute shower, but his scent still lingers on my skin and hair. Just like he wanted it.

He accomplished his goal of marking his territory.

When I walked into the foyer, every house employee I passed turned up their noses, sniffing the air.

The housekeeper knocked on my door early this morning and told me to report to the sunroom for breakfast.

While I expected a room full of people, Riona is alone at the table, eating. An entire breakfast spread is situated across the table. My stomach rumbles as I take in all my options.

Riona peers up at me and smiles. “Good morning, Pippa.”

After dinner, she went out with her bridesmaids, so we didn’t have a chance to talk. She’d invited me to go with them, but I politely declined. She continued to stay quiet during dinner, sat straight in her chair with the perfect posture, and anytime she did speak, it was spoken with elegant grace.

“Good morning,” I say, moving into the room, uncertain how to start this conversation. It’d be nice to know how much she knows about my history with Damien—or even if she knows anything.

“I suppose now’s a good time for us to chat.” She takes a bite of her omelet and sets her fork to the side of her plate.

A breeze floats through the open double doors that show off a gorgeous flower garden. The sound of fountains flow through the air. Awkwardness follows me as I take the chair across from her.

“Pippa, you know how my father is,” she says, jumping straight to the point. “Even if I told him I didn’t want to marry Damien, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Did you tell him you didn’t want to marry Damien?” I reach across the table, grab the orange juice carafe, and pour myself a glass.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you want to marry him?”

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