Chapter 41
Roxy
"We didn't have to come," I tell Damien.
Two days ago, someone important to him was killed, and I know that even though he's trying to hide it from me, the loss cuts deep. There's a part of him fighting not to show this vulnerability, but I see it when I look into his eyes.
"No, s?onko. It's your family."
Ha. Family is a strong word.
I don't know why the hell I haven't severed this toxic connection. It's not like I was ever considered a member of this "family," but I guess I'm a masochist. Because I keep coming back here, knowing I'll leave with my soul bleeding.
The house, with its orange brick exterior and gray roof, looks exactly the same as when I left.
I pull in a breath, and squeezing Damien's hand, I knock on the door.
After a few moments, Aria opens it, and I hate how instantly her eyes travel to Damien. And I hate the way her eyes light up with appreciation even more.
"If you're done staring at my husband, can we come in?" I ask, watching her eyes widen.
"Charming as always, Roxy," she says.
Damien squeezes my hand, and I know it's his way of telling me not to get worked up before we've even stepped inside. He already knows I don't have a good relationship with them, but I don't think he understands how much it means to me that he's here by my side.
Inside, the house smells of tomato sauce and basil, and of course Ivette made that disgusting pasta recipe.
After leaving my coat in the hallway and Damien setting his leather jacket beside it, we enter the living room, where my father, Ivette, Aria's fiancé Zion, a family friend named Cora, and Zion's family are gathered.
"Roxy, my God, look how you've grown!" Cora tells me, and I'd love to mention that she hasn't seen me since I was eighteen, when I left for college.
But I hold back because beside her, at the head of the table, sits my father. And I know that if I make a snide comment, he probably won't give me even two words all evening.
So I smile and greet her back.
"Is it humid outside?" Ivette asks. Not even two minutes in the house, and she’s already trying to piss me off.
"Let me guess—my hair's frizzy," I reply weakly.
The gleam in her eye makes it obvious that's exactly what she wanted to say, and Damien tenses beside me.
"This is Damien Kaminski, my husband," I finally introduce him, looking at my father.
He's the only person at this table I care about, though I don't know why I still do. Years of seeking his validation, years of hoping that I'd finally chosen the right clothes, the right words, the right actions to convince him I deserve even a fraction of the love he shows Aria, or even Ivette.
But with no results.
"I'm disappointed we're only finding out about your wedding now, Roxy," the man at the head of the table tells me.
His first words to me are "I'm disappointed," and I can't stop the sadness welling up in my chest. But then again, when hasn't he been? He's always been disappointed. I could have moved the moon in the sky, and he would've told me I dragged it too far to the left.
"I think that's a general sentiment when it comes to me, so I figured I'd stay consistent," I tell him with a fake smile on my lips.
"Ivette Tatcher," my stepmother says, extending her hand to Damien, and I want to laugh.
Does she really think Damien's going to kiss her hand?
"Pleasure," Damien murmurs, pulling me possessively against his side.
Cora introduces herself too, followed by Aria, Zion, and his family, and finally my father just gives a curt nod.
“So, now that we’ve gotten past Roxy’s big announcement—who, by the way, couldn’t be bothered to invite us to her wedding—Aria and Zion have decided to have theirs at The Windsor Club, the one on the edge of town,” Ivette says.
I force myself to stay quiet, to not say a word because it's not my problem. That venue is half outdoors. Their wedding's in July, next to a pond, so they'll be swarmed by mosquitoes. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
When I turn my eyes to my father, I notice his jaw clench as he stares at Damien.
"Did you manage to launch the new model?" I ask the man I would've rolled over backward a thousand times for just to get a few moments of his attention.
My father wanted to be a surgeon, but when he failed the admission exam for one of the top medical schools in the country, his parents forced him to take over the family business, a factory that makes car parts.
I know they've been working on a new console for hybrid cars for the past year.
"No, but that's not what we're discussing right now, Roxy."
Of course not. We're discussing a wedding that'll fail anyway because the groom won't be able to keep his zipper up long enough.
"What do you do, Damien?"
Damien's hand tenses on my thigh, and looking up, I notice Zion's eyes are on me.
More specifically, on my cleavage. It's subtle, I'll give him that, but every half second, his eyes flicker from Damien's face to my blouse.
"I own a club," the man beside me answers, breathing easier when I place my hand over his.
"You make money doing that?" Zion asks, and I can't help but laugh.
Damien has more money in his account than ten of Zion's family trees combined.
"Obviously, sweetheart. Just look at that engagement ring. Roxy, with her little events, could never afford that," Aria's voice rings out from beside her fiancé, and I know I've accidentally dug my nails into Damien's hand.
I feel his gaze, because I don't give her any reply. I let her insinuate what she wants. I've been in this situation too many times and I'll never come out ahead in an argument with Aria.
Not in front of my father, at least. Because it's enough to raise my eyes and see how he looks at his other daughter. How he'll never look at you, that voice whispers.
"Aria, sweetie, don't be so mean to your sister," Ivette tells her daughter. "After all, Roxy's so busy with her little events that she didn't have time to help you plan yours."
No, the reason I didn't help is because one, she never asked for my help, and two, because I know if something went wrong, she'd say I did it on purpose. And the last thing I need is a bridezilla on my case, which I know Aria will be.
A second passes. Two seconds. The tension at the table is suffocating, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
Then Damien stands up abruptly. Without excusing himself or addressing anyone, without a single word of explanation, he pulls me after him into the bathroom.
"What the—” But I don't finish because his mouth is there to cover mine, swallowing whatever protest I was about to make.
It's not a slow or gentle kiss. There's nothing tender about it. This is possessive, claiming, a brand that literally steals my breath when a minute passes, then two, without him pulling away from my lips. My lungs burn, but I don't care. I just need this, need him.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both panting. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the tremor running through his body.
"I can't stand seeing you like this," he tells me, his voice broken and raw with emotion.
"So soft, so humble and submissive in front of them.
And that sausage-looking idiot..." His jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind together.
"If he looks in your direction one more time, Roxanne, I swear to God we'll show them how fast you can arrange a funeral. "
I hear the disappointment lacing his voice when he says "humble" and "submissive," like the words physically pain him. Because normally, I'm not like this. I'm fire and sharp edges and a tongue that cuts deeper than any blade.
His hand lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. The intensity there makes my breath catch.
"Screw them," he continues, each word deliberate and fierce.
"They didn't deserve you, don't deserve you, and never will deserve you.
But please..." His thumb strokes along my jaw, tender despite the fury radiating from him.
"Never lower your head in front of them again.
Bring out your claws, bring out that fire in you, baby, and don't let them walk all over you. "
I feel him vibrating with fury for me, with rage for every word addressed to me at that table. Every dismissive comment, every backhanded compliment, every subtle dig. My heart hurts from all the emotions I'm feeling right now, from gratitude and anger and something deeper I can't quite name.
His hands slide down to the skirt I'm wearing and lift it up, bunching the fabric at my waist.
"Damien, what are you doing?" I ask, my voice trembling with anticipation more than fear.
"You don't believe me when I tell you you're exceptional," he says, his fingers tracing the edge of my tights.
"You don't believe me when I tell you the world should be on its knees at your feet.
You don't believe me when I tell you there's a fire in you that none of those idiots in that room can extinguish.
" He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Not as long as I'm still breathing."
In one motion, he turns me so my back is to him, positioning me in front of the mirror. The next thing I feel is my tights pooling at my knees, the cool air hitting my exposed skin.
I look in the mirror at my own reflection and God, my eyes. I've never seen my pupils this dilated, nearly swallowing the color completely. My cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen from his kiss, my hair slightly disheveled. I look wrecked, and we haven't even started yet.
For a moment, our gazes meet in the reflection, and he smiles. Like a predator. Like a wolf who knows he's about to feast on his prey and is savoring every second of the hunt.
"I'm going to need you to scream my name," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "so that loser at the table understands that he can have a thousand fantasies about you, can jerk off in the bathroom thinking about your breasts, but he'll never, ever get his hands on the real thing."