Chapter 42
Damien
Marco invited us to his birthday party, so here I am in the bedroom, pulling on the most uncomfortable suit in the history of suits.
What the hell is it about jeans and T-shirts that men don’t like?
Why do they feel the need to suffocate themselves in these monstrosities?
But I know why I'm doing it. Because in the mirror, I can see her analyzing me from head to toe, mesmerized by how I look in this thing.
Maybe I should wear one more often, just to see her look at me like that, pupils dilated.
But I know I'm doing the same thing. Staring at her. Because she's wearing a red dress with an open back, black stilettos, and straight hair. Her lips are painted deep crimson, and I want to know what they taste like, but no.
Since that incident, since I caused that scratch on her hand, I've denied myself this dose of happiness.
I watch her silhouette approach in the mirror, holding a necklace, moving toward me.
"Can you help me, please?" she asks, and I have to clear my throat.
I take it from between her fingers and position it around her neck. When I manage to clasp it, I notice her frowning at her own reflection.
"What's wrong?"
She finds my gaze in the mirror.
"My head's too big for this straight hair, and the earrings don't work. I need something longer to elongate—"
I turn her around before she can finish, so I don't have another episode right now.
"Your head is perfect." I kiss the crown of her head. "Your nose is perfect." I kiss the tip of her nose. "Your cheeks are perfect." I kiss both cheeks, unable to stop the satisfied sound that escapes when my lips make contact with her skin.
"And my mouth?" she asks softly, holding her breath.
"It's more than perfect," I answer.
She frowns at me.
"Then why won't you kiss it?"
This woman will be the death of me.
"Because I don't deserve to kiss it, s?onko."
My eyes drop to her hand, where the scratch is barely visible anymore, but it might as well have a flashing beacon attached for how much it stands out to me.
"For a scratch I gave myself," she tells me, and I see flames ignite in her gaze.
I don't think she understands what it's meant for me to go these days without touching her even though every morning I wake up pressed against her. When I'm awake, I can control my mind and impulses, but apparently, in sleep, my body seeks her out involuntarily.
"I deserve this punishment," I tell her quietly, swallowing hard.
"Except you're not just punishing yourself, Damien."
The way my mind betrayed me in that moment horrifies me to my core, because I know I could have hurt her.
That thought tears my soul to pieces. No matter how many times she repeats it, no matter how much I try to convince myself I never would have done it, there's that dark shadow, that damned possibility that one day I won't be able to pull myself out of that red episode, where all I want is to let this fury that's eating me alive run free.
She takes a step and presses herself against me while her hands cup my face. When I see that she’s looking at my lips, I lean down until our mouths are a millimeter apart.
"Tell me you've missed kissing me," I murmur, and I know I look like a lovesick puppy right now.
"I've missed you, you idiot." Smiling, she steals the distance between us.
I feel days of frustration in this kiss, and without being able to stop myself, I lift her like a bride crossing the threshold. Roxanne starts laughing in my arms, and I look at her, so carefree, so relaxed, so happy. So mine.
Her eyes are loaded with warmth and affection, and this organ in my chest beats twice as fast at that realization.
Without waiting, she closes the distance between our mouths again, and this time I make sure to rediscover her mouth, biting each lip, drawing out moans when my tongue touches hers. But my erection reminds me I don't have enough time to make her scream my name.
"You're killing me," I tell her when I have to set her down.
"Not my fault you told me about that will." She laughs, and I'm glad to see she's forgotten all the nonsense those vipers planted in her head.
Because she's the most perfect woman to ever walk this earth.
We've been at Marco's house for twenty minutes, and I remember why I hate these kinds of events. People attend them. Lots of people. Lots of people I'd like to use as test subjects for my new knife set, but apparently, that would ruin the atmosphere.
Every man in this house with a working erection has stared at her back, looked at how this dress makes her ass appear rounder, noticed her breasts, which I know aren't supported by any bra.
Her hand squeezes my forearm as she whispers, "You know, if you keep glaring at every man who gets within fifteen feet of us, I have a feeling no one's going to leave any gifts for Marco."
"Good," I mutter nervously when I see a bald little man staring at her hair.
"I'll be right back," I tell her, calculating how many seconds it would take me to slide a blade through his iris, because I know he's burned the image of her hair cascading down her bare back into his brain.
Or maybe I'll just remove his optic nerves directly. ..
"No, no. I don't want to deal with a corpse in the middle of a party with two hundred guests," the woman beside me says.
She positions herself in front of me and kisses me in front of all the losers who I know are cursing me for being lucky enough to have her in my arms.
And since I still feel the sting of jealousy in my chest, I pull her to me and let my hand slide down the skin of her back.
She has a beauty mark just to the left of her spine, and her skin trembles when I trace my fingertips over it.
Behind us, a voice sounds, and we break the moment, but I make a mental note that she likes being touched there.
"Roxy, the party turned out wonderfully," Marco's sister tells my wife.
"I'm glad I could help," Roxanne replies. "This is my husband, Damien Kaminski."
It’s the first time she’s actually introduced me to someone as her husband, in public, and the idiot organ in my chest is throwing a full-on parade.
"Gianna. Pleased to meet you," says the woman I recognize from other events I've been invited to.
I nod slightly, but my attention shifts to the terrace, where Marco's son appears to be having a heated discussion with someone.
Now, normally, I'd grab a glass of cognac and go see if there's room for me to sink my knife into someone, but since the guy is my brother-in-law, sort of, I feel the need to intervene.
"I'll be right back," I tell my wife while finding Stefan, the soldier I most often trust to watch her, with my eyes. He knows not to take his gaze off Roxanne.
Outside, a light wind makes my skin prickle.
"I warned you not to look at my wife again," Luca says as he holds a gun pointed at a blond man's throat.
In a few seconds, I'm behind him, and I almost burst out laughing because I feel like I'm channeling my inner Roman. Usually, I'm the one who needs to be stopped in these situations, not the one intervening rationally.
"As much as I enjoy a little chaos at a party like this, my wife worked really hard to make sure everything turns out perfectly, so I'd ask you not to ruin her evening. And by 'ask,' I mean put that gun down without me needing to intervene," I tell Luca, and both men now look at me.
The blond idiot has no idea who I am, so clearly he's not from this world, but Luca frowns.
"This situation isn't your business, Damien. If I want to use him as a voodoo doll, but with bullets, I'm going to do it. Because he dared to look at my wife twice in the same evening, like she was some fucking dessert at a candy bar."
Emotionally, I get it. I was ready to play ophthalmologist with that bald little man for how he looked at Roxanne, but rationally, the place is too crowded for that.
"There are two hundred people here, and over forty are part of the event management team. A gunshot would generate too much attention. Call two of your guys and rough him up a bit. The way he's looking at us right now, you'd be wasting the bullet on him."
His jaw clenches, but I know we won't have to discover whether Roxanne knows how to remove blood stains from Gianna's terrace tonight.
A moment later, Luca calls two soldiers and points at the man trembling like a leaf.
"I want at least the fingers on one hand needing splints, understood?" he tells them, and both soldiers nod.
After they leave, Luca says, "Thanks. You probably saved me from a monster argument with my father."
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him we're family and he doesn't need to thank me, so I just nod.
"Why'd you do it?" he asks.
"Do what?"
"Why'd you intervene?"
Because you're the half brother of the only woman I love. Because if you knew who she is, I know if something happened to me, you'd protect her with your life. Because I want her to have the family she never had growing up.
"Because I didn't want to upset my wife," I answer with a smile.
He narrows his eyes at me, but he gives a short nod, so I turn back to the party.
And these idiots in the room better develop a sudden case of Alzheimer's so they forget how that red dress falls over Roxanne's ass, or I might be the one pulling out a gun and making a spectacle of this birthday.
When I find my wife, she’s on the dance floor with Marco, who's doing a terrible job at not giving away his secret.
He's looking at Roxanne with so much adoration, he's lucky he's my father-in-law, otherwise we'd be having a problem on that dance floor.
I know I need to temper this jealousy so I don't scare her, but when I see her so relaxed, so pleased with everything she managed to pull off with this event, when I see her glowing like that, I don't want anyone else enjoying her this way.
No one deserves her light. Absolutely no one.