Chapter 21
21
What a dummy I was for always insisting we sleep at my apartment instead of Damien’s brownstone.
His bed is ten times comfier.
The sheets softer.
There’s central freaking air.
No one is stomping upstairs or vacuuming their apartment.
The spot next to me is empty and cold, but Damien’s masculine scent lingers on the sheets, relaxing me.
I didn’t argue when he told me I was sleeping at his place. I no longer feel safe at my apartment right now. It sucks since I adore my place. It isn’t much, but it’s still a home I worked hard for.
Groaning, I throw an arm over my eyes to block the sunlight streaming through the curtains covering a wall of windows. Yesterday’s events swallow my thoughts, a bitter reminder of the chaos.
The loan sharks.
My father fleeing New York.
My mom losing her shit.
The detective .
Shit!
I forgot about the detective requesting I become his personal rat.
Should I tell Damien or keep it to myself?
The anxiety of that conversation causes a dull ache to throb inside my head as I roll out of bed and plod through the bedroom to the en suite bath that belongs in a spa.
A duffel bag, filled with my clothes and personal items, sits on the island in the closet. Per Damien’s demand, I texted him a list of stuff to grab from my apartment. His packing me a bag felt weird at first, but I’m growing more comfortable with him. I don’t see him as some creep who’ll sniff my panties.
Okay, not like in a creepy way.
More in a sexy way because I’m pretty sure he’s pocketed a pair of my worn panties before. Damien moves so quickly that it’s hard to keep up with what he does.
He moves like a predator.
Swift and intentional.
Sometimes, you don’t even know you’ve fallen victim to him before it’s too late.
I brush my teeth, my hair, and change into fresh clothes. It took Damien’s men three hours to install everything in my mom’s home yesterday. They spent another hour walking us through how to work them.
Damien isn’t only spoiling me, protecting me, but he’s also extending that courtesy to my family. I have nothing to give him in return, and he doesn’t care.
I leave the bedroom and run my hand along the brass staircase rail while moving down the steps.
Not a fan of steps, huh?
Damien’s brownstone is timeless. He preserved its beautiful history while also renovating the space, making it contemporary. He—or whoever designed the space—gave it the perfect balance. It’s a piece of art tucked between walls. The open-floor plan and large windows provide plenty of natural light.
When my feet hit the bottom step, the front door opens.
Damien walks in, carrying a box of doughnuts. A short woman with silver hair follows him, holding a grocery tote and peering around the chef’s kitchen.
“Pippa,” Damien says, setting the box on the black marble island in the kitchen. “This is Monique. She’s one of the best vegetarian chefs in the city.”
Oh, I recognize her .
I follow her on Instagram and have tried—and unfortunately failed—to recreate her recipes.
I smile, sending her a tiny wave. “Hi, Monique.”
She returns the smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Pippa. I’m excited to work with you.”
“Monique will be your chef from now on,” Damien says simply, slipping off his blazer and draping it over the island chair.
“I started a menu this morning,” Monique adds before glancing at Damien. “Do you mind if I familiarize myself with your kitchen and make a list of items I’ll need?”
“It’s all yours,” Damien answers. He swipes the doughnut box from the island and hands it to me. “Until she gets started, I brought today’s breakfast.”
“Thank you.” I open the box, finding the most elaborate doughnuts I’ve ever seen. My mouth waters.
“Can’t have my baby going hungry.” He kisses the tip of my nose and clasps my hand.
I follow his lead upstairs, our footsteps echoing through the space, mixing with the sound of Monique moving around the kitchen. When we’re back in the bedroom, Damien softly shuts the door behind us.
“How did you sleep? ”
“Good actually.” For once, I didn’t wake up with achy muscles.
A cocky smirk spreads across his face. “Told you my place was better.”
“You have stairs.”
“Stairs that aren’t the size of a toenail or made of rotting wood.”
“Stairs are stairs.” I shrug. “Your bed is also surprisingly comfortable.”
“Surprisingly?” He raises a dark brow. “Where did you think I slept? On the concrete in some dungeon or a prison mattress?”
“No, it’s just that most men don’t have comfortable mattresses.”
Damien glares at me. “I’d suggest you never refer to you and another man’s mattress again, Pippa.”
“Why? Do you plan to kill every man and mattress I’ve ever sat on?”
“If I’m having a shitty day, possibly.” He motions to the box of doughnuts. “Eat. You didn’t have dinner last night.”
“Neither did you.” I’m not one hundred percent positive of that since we weren’t together most of the evening.
“I had coffee this morning.” He stalks around me to sit in the chair in the room’s corner.
He moves his head from one side to the other, and I hear his neck pop. He pops his knuckles next.
His bruised knuckles .
My broken man—always bruised and cut on both the inside and out.
His eyes level on me as I sashay toward him.
“I have to keep my protector strong.” I remove a doughnut and drop the box on the floor before straddling him.
“Sugar isn’t what keeps me strong.” He smirks, brushing his knuckle over my cheek, and I shiver.
“Then, what does? ”
“Getting what I want.” His hand descends my neck, between my breasts, and stops at the waistband of my leggings. “And what I want right now is to taste this sweet pussy.” He slightly pulls the waistband back and snaps it back into place.
My blood warms, and my legs tremble against his hard thighs. I tilt my hips forward, feeling his growing erection beneath me. His fingers trail along my waistband while I decide to have some fun.
I dip my finger through the doughnut frosting and spread it across my lips.
He smirks again, his gaze cruising to my mouth, enticing me further.
I spread the frosting down my neck.
Monique is downstairs, and any other time, I’d be mortified at the possibility of someone hearing me during an intimate moment. But with Damien, here , I feel comfortable in my body and sexuality.
He dips his head closer and skims his tongue along the seam of my lips, collecting the frosting. His eyes hold me hostage. Someone could barge into the bedroom, and I wouldn’t be able to look away.
When he flicks his tongue against my lips, I part them, allowing him entry.
My body is on fucking fire.
Burning with need for him.
His mouth leaves mine to trail kisses down my cheek and neck, capturing the frosting there. His soft tongue easily glides across my skin.
My clit throbs, and he hasn’t even slipped his hand into my panties yet.
He snaps my waistband again before gripping my hips and hoisting me to my feet. I lose a breath, excitement rushing through my veins, when he takes the doughnut and drops it on the table beside the chair. He rises, towering over my body like a threat.
I gulp, peering up at him.
We’re not speaking, but so many emotions burn between us.
Desire. Darkness. Like nothing other than this moment matters.
He holds me in place, one hand back at my waistband and the other at my waist, digging into my skin through my shirt. “From now on, when you’re here, you wear fucking dresses,” he grits out. “Taking these off is a pain in the ass.”
He peels my leggings off my body, kneeling to pull them off my feet, and I kick out of them. My panties are the next to go. But they don’t join my leggings on the floor. He slips them into his pants pocket.
“My gorgeous dancer, always so soaked for me,” he mutters, as if speaking to himself more than me. “God, I love touching this pussy.” He uses his knee to separate my legs, jerking them apart, and slips a finger inside me. “Love that you give it to me, knowing all the good and bad things I’ll do to it.”
He slides his finger out and smacks my pussy with his palm.
Then, I get a little brave.
I decide that maybe, for once, I’ll try to run the show.
There’s a sense of satisfaction as I push his shoulders back.
That satisfaction fizzles right out when he hardly moves.
The man has, like, fifty pounds on me and has probably never been pushed around. All I’ve ever pushed are my parents’ nerves and the balance on my credit card when I see a candle sale.
He focuses on me, a smile building on his face. “Does my dancer want to take control?”
Why do I suddenly feel shy?
He retreats a few steps and collapses on the chair again.
His carnal eyes watch me as he unfastens his cuff links, setting them to the side, and rolls up his sleeves .
I gulp, watching his Adam’s apple move.
He rests his elbows on the chair’s arms. “Come take control, baby. I want to see you do it.”
I scrape my teeth against my bottom lip.
Here I am, having stage fright with him again.
“Don’t get shy on me now, Pippa.” He tsks me. “Either come ride my dick or spend the rest of the day craving it because in five seconds, I’ll leave this room and deprive your sweet pussy of my cock.” He relaxes in the chair while unbuckling his pants.
For some disturbed reason, his words calm me.
They also give me a push in his direction.
“Five,” he clips out.
I inch closer.
“Four.”
Closer .
“Three.”
I take the final step, where I’m standing above him. My chest heaves, my breathing fluttering like a butterfly.
“Two.”
He shoves them, along with his briefs, down to his ankles. My heart thrashes in my chest as I take the last step and his cock springs free.
It’s hard, throbbing, pre-cum already on the tip.
He spits in his hand and slowly starts stroking himself. I peer down at him, watching his gaze sweep down and land on my bare pussy. He licks his lips and slumps down in the chair, as if wanting a better look.
“Quit playing games and ride this cock,” he grunts.
I sink my toes into the rug before palming his shoulders and pushing them backward. His gaze returns to mine as his body flattens against the chair. Silence surrounds us as I slowly straddle him. He hisses under his breath as I grind my hips forward a few times, rubbing my pussy against his cock. I stare, fascinated at our connection and how my juices are coating him .
He curls his fingers into my waist, lifts me until I’m above his cock, and slams me down on it. “You move too slow, baby. I need to fuck this pussy quick because I can’t stay long.”
I gasp, my back arching, as he fills me. His cock expands inside me.
Damien doesn’t give me time to adjust to his size.
I grip his shoulders and dig my nails into them as he holds me in place, pumping in and out of me. He turns his waist, making me feel him from every angle.
My teeth chatter. He’s holding me so tight and fucking me.
I get closer and closer and closer.
My orgasm building.
My body warming from the inside out.
I slump forward, shoving my face into his neck, and nearly feel like a rag doll as he fucks me. His thumb finds my clit, and he bites into my shoulder before coming inside me.
That’s when reality hits me.
My eyes flick to his.
Wide and stunned.
Seconds later, he lowers his gaze to our connection.
When he winces, I know he’s realized the same.
We didn’t use a condom.
“Shit, sorry, Pippa.” He bows his head forward and curses under his breath.
“It’s okay.” I pat his shoulder while trying to control my breathing. “I forgot too.”
We were so caught up in the moment.
Story of every surprise pregnancy.
Neither of us speaks as he guides me back up and down his cock, as if entranced by his cum inside me.
He bites into his lower lip and groans, “That’s so fucking hot.”
I moan, rotating my hips to where I’m nearly fucking him again.
“What a fucking sight,” he grunts. “Your waxed pussy leaking with my cum. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, baby.”
I moan, staring down, just as obsessed.
This man. His filthy mouth. It’s all perfection.
Not using a condom was stupid.
But at this moment, I love that he’s the first man to come inside me.
The first man I’ve had sex with, with no barrier between us.
It’s beautiful.
Now, if I miss my period in a few weeks, I probably won’t agree with this statement. I’ll more likely have a panic attack.
But for now, I’m relishing this moment.
I’m lost in my thoughts and gasp when he cups me beneath my armpits and pulls me off his dick and lap. Before I can catch my next breath, he tosses me on the bed, climbs over me, and shoves his face between my legs.
He’s relentless as he eats and finger-fucks me.
He doesn’t slow down once until I’m squirming beneath him, my hands clawing at the sheets and my head thrashing from side to side.
He builds me up, up, up until I come crashing down.
And when I’m done, he pulls back and wipes his mouth. “Now, I’m strong.”
It’s noon, and my mom’s living room curtains are closed.
I’ve never seen them shut during the day. Opening them is usually the first thing she does in the morning.
“You have to get natural light in to start your day,” she always told us. “Sunny, stormy, overcast—it doesn’t matter. You need to see the sky.”
I could hardly look Monique in the eye when Damien and I returned downstairs after what he referred to as breakfast . He stood to the side, allowing me to help Monique make the menu for this week.
What is my life?
Last week, I was eating ramen and almost-expired cereal, and now, I have a private chef? Well, Damien does, but he did it for me.
Julian, who’s apparently on Pippa-sitting duty, came over, and Damien left. He made sure to tell me to be good before kissing me goodbye.
I peer over at Julian in the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, taking in the similarities and differences between him and his brother. Julian is younger—my guess, around four or five years. Their hair is the same shade, but Damien’s is messier and thicker. Both have a slight tilt on their noses, thick brows, and tall, lean bodies.
They are also men of few words.
Julian hardly spoke to me on the drive to my mom’s. That might have to do with the fact that he hadn’t wanted to bring me here. Damien and I had a five-minute-long argument. He’d wanted me to stay at his place, but I refused, insisting I needed to check on my mom.
I unfasten my seat belt. “Do you wait out here?”
He glowers. “Would you like me to come in and have girl talk with you?”
Okay, rude.
I offer him a sarcastic smile. “It might make you less tense.”
He cuts the engine and pushes his black Ray-Bans up his sleek nose. “Hard pass. Soft isn’t my strong suit. Don’t stay long.”
“Okey dokey.”
He doesn’t say a word as I leave the car.
The sun beats down on me as I walk to the front door and knock. Since Damien had the locks changed, I don’t have a key yet.
Mental reminder to get one .
“How is she?” I ask Lanie when she answers the door, and I walk inside.
She releases her brown hair from its ponytail and redoes it. “Not good.”
“No word from Dad?”
“No, I think he’s finally gone for good this time.” Understandable relief is in her tone.
Lanie turned eighteen this year and spent most of her childhood witnessing my parents argue nonstop. I at least got a few good years before my father fell into his gambling addiction.
We stop our conversation when my mom walks into the living room. Her hair is wet and ratty, and she’s dressed in a polka-dot robe. She doesn’t greet us while she settles on the couch and clicks the TV on.
It’s a sad story. My mom, once a beautiful and gifted ballerina, wrecked by an undeserving man. Well, men , if you count the ones she grew up with.
They all ruined her.
That’s something I’ll never allow any of them to do to me.
We wait for my mom’s next move. All morning, she dodged my calls and texts. Lanie said she wouldn’t open her bedroom door for her.
In what seems like slow motion, she raises her eyes and locks them on mine. “No boyfriend this time?”
I flinch at the sneer in her tone.
There’s a clear look of disgust on her face, as if Damien wronged her yesterday instead of helping.
My mom used to be kind and loving.
Known for always having a smile on her face, a jokester, but that isn’t who she is anymore.
I fidget with my purse strap. “Damien is at work. ”
“Work?” she huffs. “What’s his line of work , Pippa?”
“He works at a casino.” I wrinkle my nose.
Lanie inhales a long breath.
Fire lights up in my mom’s eyes.
“Are you kidding me?” She fists her hand and pounds it on the table. “Casinos have devastated our lives, Pippa!” She points at me, wiggling her finger. “Don’t you think I don’t know he’s more than a man who works at a casino ? I know a made man when I see one. Have you forgotten that I grew up surrounded by them?”
“Mom,” I say around a sigh, “Damien is a good man.”
I want to add that he helped us, got rid of Dad’s debt, and rescued me when Dad’s loan sharks came to me for payment.
But I don’t because she’d find a way to blame him for that too.
“He’s just like Cernach.” She snatches the pack of cigarettes on the table and lights one. She recently picked up a new smoking habit.
My pulse thrums through my body as I try to calm the defensiveness rising inside me. “He’s nothing like Cernach.” I can’t stop myself from gritting out the last word.
She frowns, deep wrinkles appearing on her forehead.
“All men want you to believe they’re not who they truly are,” she says with the least bit of interest. “But in the end, all the things hidden in the dark come to light.” She continues puffing on her cigarette, looking at me with a snarl. “And that’s when you’ll realize I was right. He’s exactly who I think he is.”
“Heads-up, we’re on Amara duty tonight,” Damien says over the phone. “We’re watching her at my place for a while.”
I’m in Julian’s car, waiting for him to return. He’s in my apartment, grabbing my dance bag. I forgot to put it on my list for Damien.
When I asked Julian if my apartment was now a crime scene, he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and stepped out of the car.
“Totally fine,” I reply. “She’s the sweetest.”
“We’ll probably make it back around the same time.”
I only stayed at my mom’s for a few hours. She spent half the time screaming and cursing like my father was standing in front of her. She spent the other half calling his phone relentlessly, but it always went to voicemail.
When she said she was going back to bed, Lanie retreated to her bedroom, wearing her headphones, and I left.
My family is completely broken.
To be honest, I think it’s been that way for a long time.
Damien: I’m home now.
Me: Almost there.
As we pull up to Damien’s brownstone, I admire the historic building that overlooks the Hudson River. The brick is a dark red, and the front door is the same black as Damien’s hair.
Anyone would love to call this place their home.
Though with its location and size, it’s out of most people’s budgets.
I collect my bag from the back seat and sling it over my shoulder, and Julian follows me inside. Amara’s giggles greet us. The smell of fresh garlic and tomato drifts through the air.
It’s such a drastic change to where I just was.
This sounds, smells, feels like a happier home.
I pass the kitchen, noticing Monique and Clara, and shoot them a quick hello. As I move deeper toward the living room, I stop and watch Damien with Amara. He’s relaxed on the leather sectional while Amara animatedly tells him a story. She throws her arms up with every other word.
I love how attentive he is with her.
How his rough demeanor softens, layer by layer.
He does the same with me.
We’re the few granted the gentle side of him.
He wrinkles his forehead and throws his head back, laughing when she makes a funny face. When he lowers his head, his gaze angles in my direction.
I cheekily smile at him, and it’s like my nervous system settles as our eyes meet.
Amara’s attention follows his. “Hi, Pippa!” She skips toward me, UGG slippers sweeping the wood floor and ponytail flying.
I grin at her. “Hi, Amara!”
She comes to a sliding stop and points at my bag. “What are those?”
I peer down to find my ballet slippers halfway hanging from my bag.
“Oh.” I run my fingers over a sole. “My dance shoes.”
“So cool!” Her face brightens up. “Can I see them on you?”
“Of course.”
She follows me to the living room. I sit on the floor next to Damien’s feet, and Amara kneels beside me.
“First, I put on my toe pads.” I unzip my bag and pull them out. “Then, you have to make sure your foot is flat on the floor like this and your knees bent.”
I demonstrate the proper form as she crawls closer, staring at my feet.
“Next, we tie them.” I explain every move I make while wrapping the ribbon around my foot and ankle. “This is to make sure your ankles have great stability. That’s important.”
She nods repeatedly, hanging on to every detail .
I love teaching dance at all levels, but introducing it to children is my favorite. Nothing is more genuine than innocent excitement. When someone isn’t worried about expectations. They’re there to simply learn and have fun.
When I’m finished tying it around my ankle, I loop the ribbons into a knot. Amara creeps so close that she’s nearly sitting on my other foot.
I extend my leg when I’m finished. “And that’s how you put on a ballet slipper.”
“I want to do that!” She grins from ear to ear. “How’d you learn?”
“My mother taught me, and then I started teaching classes.”
“Really?” Amara peeks up at Damien, pouting her lower lip. “Do you think Daddy will let me go to her dance classes?”
Damien scratches his head. “You’ll have to ask him that.”
I’m sure Antonio won’t jump for joy to have his daughter attend my classes. My shoulders slump at the reality check that I don’t have a studio to teach her in anyway.
“Will you show me how you dance while wearing them?” she asks.
I put the other shoe on and stand, and Amara giggles, making herself comfortable on the couch beside Damien. Her brown eyes are bright and wide while she waits for my next move. Damien rests his elbows on the armrests, giving me his undivided attention.
If I’ve learned one thing about Damien, the man loves watching me. It’s like his new favorite hobby.
I spend the next twenty minutes giving them a crash course on ballet basics. Each time I peer at Damien, he mouths different words to me:
Beautiful.
Gorgeous.
Perfection.
All mine.
“Uncle Damien! Can I hold Ace?” Amara asks when dinner is over.
Monique’s tofu spaghetti was one of the best dinners I’d had in a long time. It might even put L’ultima Cena to shame. Not that I’d ever tell the murder-eatery that. No one even complained that it was a meatless meal.
Damien is seated in a corner chair, working on his laptop, and I just finished helping Clara and Monique clean the kitchen.
“Ace?” I ask Damien.
“Ace, the snake!” Amara shouts, jumping off the couch.
Ace the huh?
I scan the room as if a snake is about to slither out from somewhere.
Damien drops his laptop to the floor and stands. “Only if you sit on the couch.” His tone is strict yet also gentle. “Be right back.” As he passes me, he drops a kiss to my cheek and retreats upstairs.
Clara joins Amara on the couch, and I steal Damien’s seat. I rub my arms as Damien comes back into the living room with a snake around his arms.
Since when does this man have a snake?
He’s never mentioned it once.
No heads-up that we have a reptile roommate.
“Ace!” Amara shouts, squirming in excitement. “I’ve missed you!”
Damien walks over to her and carefully hands her the snake. She cradles it in her arms as if she were holding a baby. Neither Clara nor Damien shows an ounce of anxiety at this child holding this scary-as-hell snake. Damien does stand at her side, watching them.
Ace isn’t a huge snake, but his size doesn’t lessen his creepiness. His brown-and-gray scales are almost in a zigzag design, and his body is nothing but muscle.
“Ace is a saw-scaled viper,” Amara explains, petting his head. “Do you want to hold him?”
“I’m okay,” I reply. “You and Ace can spend some quality time together.”
Ace’s head turns toward me, and I swear, his dark black pupils stare straight into mine. He’s probably plotting to bite me in my sleep since I declined to hold him.
Damien backs away from her as I lean in toward him.
“You should’ve given me a heads-up that we have a snake as a roomie,” I comment.
He slips his hands into his pockets. “Ace isn’t dangerous.”
“He’s a snake . Snakes can tighten their bodies around yours and strangle you—aka dangerous.”
“Ace isn’t dangerous! He’s sweet,” Amara squeals before giving him a kiss on the head next.
“He doesn’t have venom,” Damien explains. “It was removed.”
I blink up at him. “You can do that?”
I figured they do it at zoos, sure, but for a civilian to do it?
He nods.
“Is that considered cruel?”
“It was better than the situation Ace was in before.”
“And by situation , you mean?”
“Antonio bought him from some POS who’d purchased him overseas because he was poisonous. The asshole didn’t take care of him. One day, we went to his house to collect a loan. Antonio saw how Ace was treated—in a small tank with hardly any room and looked nearly on the brink of starvation—and made him sell it to him. When we called the local animal rescue, they wouldn’t take him. Antonio had his venom removed and took him home.” He jerks his head toward Amara. “That’s where he stayed until this one here tried to sneak him out of his tank and into her bedroom to snuggle with him at night. He asked me to take Ace. So, he either stays here or if I’m crashing at Antonio’s for a long period, I take him with me.”
Damien allows Amara to hold Ace for another twenty minutes, and she whines when he takes her from him.
Amara rattles on about how much she loves and misses Ace and follows Damien upstairs to return the snake to his bedroom … cage … wherever he lives. I should’ve done a better tour of the brownstone instead of riding Damien’s cock earlier.
“He likes you,” Clara comments when they’re out of earshot. “Damien never watches Amara here, but he didn’t want to leave you alone. Surprisingly, Antonio agreed to it.”
“Does he …” I run my hands up my arms while peeking over at the staircase. “Has he brought other women around Amara before?”
“Never,” she says with absolute certainty. “Only you, Pippa.”
During the car ride to Antonio’s, Amara rambles about wanting to take dance classes, how much she wishes Ace would move back in with her, and how she wants earrings that match mine.
When we arrive, I wait in the car while Damien walks Amara and Clara inside. They invited me inside, but that was a big fat immediate no. The less untrusting stare downs from Antonio Lombardi, the better.
While I sit in the car, my mind wanders to how attentive Damien is with Amara. I’ve seen fathers act less interested in their own children—aka mine.
Damien told me Amara was his goddaughter, and he’s definitely living up to the godfather role.
I tap my foot and mutter, “Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask,” to myself until the door opens and Damien slips behind the steering wheel.
“Do you want children?”
And I asked. FML.
Damien stops mid-start of the Range Rover, and there’s a brief silence before he replies, “My mother is the only other person who’s asked me that question.”
“What did you tell her?” I croak out.
“That before I ever thought about kids, I’d need to make a woman happy as my wife first. And I wasn’t sure if that’d ever happen.”
My throat feels almost sore. “Why weren’t you sure?”
“My job, this life—it hurts families. It’s not for the faint of heart. Not only for me, but for whoever I marry as well. I need a woman who fully accepts me and the darkness inside my soul.” He turns to me, the light limited, and I make out his furrowed brows. “I want the woman I have children with to want a family— truly want one, not by force.”
He inhales a deep breath and continues, “Arranged marriages, like Cernach wants, can create hostile lives for children. Luckily, my parents loved each other. But Antonio’s? They’re miserable. Which is why I’d never agree or sign a marriage contract with Cernach unless you one hundred percent wanted it. Like I told you, I’d marry you in a minute, but I’d never force you.” His voice lowers. “Are you asking me this because children with me is something you’d consider?”
A lump forms in my throat, and my heart races. “I always pictured myself having children after marriage.”
“ Any marriage?”
“A marriage that isn’t arranged,” I say with a sigh. “A marriage that started with dating and falling in love, built up over time. I’ll only try marriage once, so I want to be damn sure it’s the right one I take that chance with. I won’t settle for less.”
“Marriage once with me . I’ll take it.” He cups my face. “You, my sweet dancer, would make an amazing baby mama for me.” He smacks a gentle kiss to my forehead.
I laugh. “I think we have a loooot of steps before marriage and children.”
“Ah, yes, your pain-in-the-ass steps.”
I’m afraid steps won’t be our problem.
No, it’ll come straight from a monster in Boston.
If Cernach wants a marriage with me and Damien, I’ll never do it.
Damien and I could always run off and marry without his knowledge, like my mother did, but look how that turned out. I need to have a long-term relationship work out before making as big of a step as marriage.
I refuse to marry before I’m ready.
Refuse to be Cernach’s pawn.
Even if it means breaking my heart in the process.