Page 28 of Possession

It’s actually stunning, and I know it’s not off the rack. This little black number is couture. And since I’ve hardly eaten in the last day, it fits like a glove.

I’ve never felt better about myself while planning a funeral.

Okay, fine. I’ve never planned a funeral before today. I can’t imagine many twenty-three-year-olds think about funerals. I’ve been to a couple but never planned one.

And it’s not like Damian made a good impression for the few moments we spent together at the church. He was intimidating and mean and downright violent.

And he needed to brush his teeth.

So sitting in Damian’s ostentatious house, eating a glamorous meal his cook prepared, and drinking his expensive wine while listening to details about how the world will say its finalfuck youto the man who choked me in a church, I’m shocked at my new level of chill.

Maybe it has something to do with my new husband. Besides our wedding kiss and pushing me into the shower to tell me about how my dead fiancé was into voyeurism, he hasn’t touched me the way a wife would expect a husband to touch her.

But, really, I think it’s just the wine.

“More wine, Mrs. Torres?” Spencer asks. Besides keeping my glass full, I’m not sure what Spencer’s official role is. He answered the door for our guests, served the salad and dessert but not the main course, and has played bartender to our weird foursome. The table can seat sixteen, but since there are only four of us, we’re in the center. Boz is at my side and an older couple sits across from us.

My smile is probably too big for the topic of death, but when your wedding is shot up, your fiancé is murdered, you’re kidnapped, and then end up marrying another man all within twenty-four hours, you just don’t care. “Keep it coming, Spencer. Thank you.”

“No.” My dear, broody-hot husband snatches the crystal from my hand. “She’s had enough.”

I frown. I’m sure it’s the fermented grapes, but I’m feeling fine and brave. “You know,Brian, some of us deal with death differently. And, kidnapping, for that matter. I want another glass of wine.”

Boz’s dark glare doesn’t move from me when he hands over the glass to the man I thought was my only friend here. “My wife has had enough. You can leave us to talk, Spencer. Thank you.”

“Sir.” Spencer gives Boz a teensy bow and runs away with my wine.

Damn you, Spencer.

I start to roll my eyes, but Boz’s hand catches my chin and forces me to look at him. He hikes a brow as his thumb drags its way across my bottom lip. “We’ll talk about that later, baby. You can have all the wine you want in our bed, but not now.”

I gape at him. He hasn’t looked at me this way since our nuptials. He’s not irritated like he usually is. He looks like he wants to devour me.

Like make-our-consummation-one-for-the-record-books devour me.

Shit. I really need to keep my mouth shut like he told me to.

“She’s a fucking disgrace. Damian would never have allowed that. And Nic wouldn’t have it either. You have no business being in this house, running Damian’s business, or being the one who got her.”

I jerk my chin from Boz’s hand and gape across the table at the man who hasn’t spoken two words to me since he walked through the door, but he doesn’t need to. I can tell he’s about as happy with me as he is to be planning his nephew’s funeral.

Ed and Eliza Decker are Damian’s aunt and uncle. Two minutes before the doorbell chimed, Boz told me they were tasked with planning the funeral. They live in Santa Barbara, and Eliza is Alamandos’ much younger sister. I have no idea if they have anything to do with the Marino business, but I did find out during the main course that their son is Nic—the angry one who was dragged away because he wanted to marry me.

That little tidbit causes the salmon to turn in my stomach, no matter how delicious it was.

But I’m thrown for another loop when Boz wraps a hand around the bottom of my dining chair and yanks it so I’m pressed to his side. His arm circles my shoulders right before he leans in to press his warm lips to my temple. He holds me tight to him when he settles back into his chair. “I’m not Damian or Nic, and I can handle my wife just fine, Edward. I answer to Alamandos, not you. You’re here because he can’t come across the border, and he wanted his sister’s input in the funeral. Landyn is mine now. You’ll never talk about my wife that way again.”

“She’s nothing but a pawn.” Ed turns red in the face and does not heed my husband’s warning as he turns to me. “They say it was the Lazadas who attacked the church, but no one knows for sure. Your father should’ve been taken down instead of Damian. He started this shit show. The rest of us are left to pick up the pieces and deal with you.”

Boz’s glare across the table turns ominous. “You’ve been warned, Decker. I won’t say it again. You disrespect my wife, you disrespect me. You got your directions from Alamandos, and your son is lucky to still be around. I’m in charge, and you fucking know it.”

Ed has been on edge all night, but the mention of his son makes him look like his head might explode. Eliza looks like she wants to crawl under the table in case bullets start flying again.

Ed turns his attention to Boz. “You’re too young—hell, you’re not even a Marino. Alamandos’ an idiot, and so was Damian. You took one bullet for him, and they think you’re the Second fucking Coming.”

“That’s exactly what I was. It’s the reason I’m sitting here instead of your son or a Marino,” Boz replies. He’s calm and cool compared to Ed. Cocky even. I have no idea what thistaking a bulletis about, but the man protecting me just agreed to being compared to the Second Coming and owned it like a badass.

Yikes.

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