Page 33 of The Merciless Don's Bride

“See you later, Cassandra,” he says smoothly.

“See you later, Luciano,” I reply, matching his tone.

His lips curve. “Call me Damien. I’m to be your husband, after all.”

I so don’t need that reminder right now.

“Do you always have to be such an asshole?” I snap. “Fine. Bye, Damien.”

He casts me one last look—cool, unreadable—then nods and turns, striding out like he owns the world. His men fall in line behind him without a word, shadows trailing their king.

He’s as powerful as he is devastatingly handsome, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to escape a man like that. A man who doesn’t need chains to keep me bound.

CHAPTER NINE

DAMIEN

I’m not incapable of love. I just didn’t grow up in an environment where it was seen as anything other than a weakness. My father was a good man. or as good as a person can be in our world. He was an honorable Don. He killed only when absolutely necessary and he never shed innocent blood.

I’d like to believe I’m like that, but I have a talent for violence he didn’t have. A talent that worries me at times. What if this is all there is to me? What if the violence and fear is all I am?

Which is why I need Cassandra. Perhaps she can help me understand, or unlock some hidden part of myself that’s a little less monster and a lot more human. From the moment I laid eyes on her, she’s had a hold on me. She’s the only one who could possibly help me shine some light on some of the darkest parts of me. But I can’t very well tell her that’s why I want to marry her.

There’s a lot I can’t tell her.

It’s pretty late when I return to the house. I’m half-expecting Cassandra not to be awake but I’m surprised when Lila informs me that she’s been waiting in the living room. I walk over there and find her curled on the couch, her attention fixed on the tv in front of her.

She doesn’t notice me at first, too lost in whatever thoughts are playing across her face. So I take my time. Watching her.

She’s draped across the velvet chaise beautifully, one bare leg tucked under the other, her red silk robe sliding just enough to tease the curve of her thigh. Her skin glows, smooth and golden in the low light, begging to be touched. Her long brown hair spills around her shoulders in soft, messy waves, like she just rolled out of bed.

Every inch of her is dangerous—because I don’t just want her. I crave her.

And standing there, watching her like this? It takes everything in me not to close the distance and remind her who she belongs to.

She reaches up to scratch her nose, which is cute enough to make me smile. It isn’t until the episode of whatever show she’s watching ends that she lifts her head. Her gaze shoots over to where I’m standing and her eyes widen.

“How long were you there for?” she asks in surprise.

I shrug, walking into the room. “Not long,” I shrug.

“Have I ever told you you’re a creep?” she questions with a cheeky smile.

“Yes, a couple of times in fact,” I reply.

“Just making sure you’re aware. You’re also late, it seems. But at least you kept your promises. Thanks for the margarita. Ana brought it to me earlier.”

I figured it was the least I could do after keeping her waiting for so long.

“My apologies,bella,” I state, walking over the couch and taking a seat on the armchair close to her. “Business ran late.”

Her brows furrow, “Why do you always say, ‘my apologies’ instead of I’m sorry?”

“They’re the same thing,” I frown.

“No, one of them is incredibly pretentious. The other one feels more sincere.”

“Maybe to you,” I argue.

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