11. Bed and breakfast

ELEVEN

Inever meant to fall asleep, and when the careful clearing of a throat somewhere above me has me jolting awake, I want to curse that I was caught so unaware.

Because there's Damien. His suit fresh—and no longer bloody. His black hair with its silver streak is damp yet perfectly combed. He smells of a musky cologne that goes right to my head, and he's crouched down so close to me, he could've slit my throat and I never would've seen it coming.

"Good morning, ragna mia."

Good morning, asshole.

I rub my eyes, hoping it'll make him look more like an ogre instead of a distinguished mobster. No dice. He looks too good, giving me one reason to add to the ever-growing list of reasons I have to kill this smooth motherfucker.

The fact that he's smiling happily as I glare at him is another.

And it's all my fault.

Last night, I didn't know what to do. Escape seemed pretty fucking obvious, especially when he left to go after his sister. I mean, I can't stay here. There are a thousand reasons why, but having my new ‘husband' fuck my mouth, then leave me behind to chase after another woman… I still wanted to kill him, but torn between feeling embarrassed and furious, every instinct inside of me was thrumming to get the hell out of here while I might be able to.

Assuming he's not full of shit when he calls her his sister, I figured that might be my chance. Then they actually had the world's most awkward conversation to overhear before she went to bed and my fucking wonderful ‘husband' set a guard dog at my door.

If I tried to leave, Vin would stop me. No questions asked. He had his orders, and though I'm sure the big guy would rather snap my neck and end this bullshit, he made sure to knock on the door every half an hour as if to remind me he was there, and I was trapped.

The idea of giving in and sleeping in Damien's bed with or without him had me deciding I'd much rather stay up and hope Vin knocks out first. I didn't want to torture myself, though—especially since that seems to be my new ‘husband's job—so when it became clear he's like the Energizer-fucking-Dragonfly, I took a pillow, stripping the comforter from the bed, and made myself a small nest on the floor between the bathroom door and the bed while I waited for him to return.

He never did. And after hours of being on alert, the events of the day finally caught up to me. Hoping like hell he wouldn't go back on his word and try to fuck me while I was sleeping, I eventually passed out.

Now I'm awake, I'm confused, and I'm more than a little pissed to be ripped from my dreams and thrust back into this nightmare by having to confront his face again so soon.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He raises his eyebrows. "What happened to my sweet Southern belle?"

Fuck. I completely forgot. A whole damn year of faking that drawl and all it took was the shock of waking up in Damien Libellula's bedroom before my harsh Springfield accent comes roaring right back. I never even realized I had one until I purposely adopted that fake one, but it's so different, even he noticed.

I can fix this. The last thing I need is for him to realize I'm not who he thinks I am. He might have his own twisted motives for forcing me to marry him after I stabbed him, but as far as I'm concerned, he's just giving me another opportunity to get my revenge.

"Don't know what you mean," I say, slipping right back into the drawl as I shove the blankets away from, struggling to climb out of the nest. "But my question stands, sir. Why were you watching me sleep?"

"Mm. The ‘sir's a nice touch. I think I like it."

In that case, I'll never call him that again.

"And I wasn't watching you sleep, wife. I was waiting for you to wake up so I can let the movers in. But you looked so peaceful in my bedding just now, I didn't want to disturb you. Sleep well?"

"It's the floor," I say flatly. "What do you think?"

"I think you would've been far more comfortable in my bed."

I let out a short laugh without a single drop of humor in it. "Not if there was a chance you'd sneak into it while I couldn't protect myself."

"Ci sta, Savannah."

I have no idea what he means. I don't bother asking, either, since my foggy brain finally caught on to something else he said. "Wait. Movers?"

Instead of answering me, Damien rises up from his crouched position. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he calls out, "Come on in, boys."

The door to his bedroom was open. I almost expect Vin to come in fist, but while the four men—because fuck ‘boys', these are all men around my age or older—all wear a suit and gun combo similar to Damien's cousin, none of them are the scowling giant from last night.

Damien said they were movers, but they're obviously Dragonflies. However, that doesn't change the fact that they're all bringing something into the room.

The first two are carrying the ends of a floppy mattress. The next two are muscling a put-together metal frame in through the door with a little more trouble than the mattress duo did.

Each one is careful not to pay me attention. Oh, no. It's like I'm an invisible which makes me wonder what Damien told any of them before he propped them up out in the hall with their?—

Hang on. Is that a bed?

Uh. Yeah. Damien points to the far side of his bed, wordlessly giving the order for his men to put the frame down first, then the mattress on top of it. There aren't any pillows, sheets, or blankets, it's undoubtedly a smaller version of his bed.

"Get me the table next, Gio."

"You got it, boss."

The one called Gio grabs one of the other indecipherable suits by the arm. Both men leave, returning a few minutes later. Gio is holding a folding table. The other guy has one narrow, metal chair—kind of like a stool—in each hand.

"Right there," Damien says, pointing at a space near me this time.

I dance out of the way before Gio unfolds the table, snapping the legs into place. It's about the size of a card table, perfect for the stools that the other suit sets out on opposite sides of the table.

"Frankie?"calls Damien.

As if on cue, an older man with a thick Springfield accent, a divot in his right cheek, and a suit that doesn't hide his gone-to-seed build comes in next, carrying a covered tray. Damien gestures at the folding table. The man lays the tray down carefully before lifting the lid.

I see two plates: each with a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, thick bacon, and golden brown toast. Salt, pepper, and a ketchup bottle are one side of the tray, with forks, knifes, and two glasses of water closer to the middle.

"Thanks, Frankie. That'll be all. Let the cook know I said it looks amazing."

"Will do, boss."

The suits are gone. The butler dude follows after them, tugging the door closed behind him.

And then it's just Damien and me.

He takes one of the seats. Grabbing a rolled-up napkin I didn't notice on the tray before, he snaps his wrist, then drops the napkin onto his lap.

He waves at the food before pointing at my seat.

"Sit down, Savannah. Eat with me."

"I'm not hungry," I lie.

"Let me make myself clear," he says, his tone pleasant while his gaze shoots daggers at me. "If there's one thing I won't tolerate, it's you lying to me. If you can't be truthful, stay quiet."

I can't help myself.

"And if I tell you that I hate you?"

Damien doesn't even bat an eye at that. "Then I'll know you mean it."

I glare at him, doing my best to ignore the delicious smells of bacon and butter wafting up from the plates even as I plop into the metal chair across from him. "I still want you dead for what you did to me."

"You didn't have to marry me, wife."

Yes. Yes, I did. But that's not what I mean, and eventually we'll both know it. That's assuming he doesn't already. I tried to kill him before he forced me into this mockery of a marriage so there's no way that's what I'm referring to. I'm not going to tell him why I've spent the last year plotting his downfall, though. He backed me into agreeing not to turn on him when we're in our bedroom. That's all he's getting out of me.

He pushes one of the plates closer to me. "You went to bed without any dinner last night. You will eat breakfast, and you will eat it with me."

"You first." Damien gives me a look, and I shrug. "How do I know you didn't do something to it? Maybe you finally realized you could've died and this is your revenge. Watching me choke on poisoned toast."

His expression goes flat. Without a word, he takes a piece of toast from my plate, bites it, chews it, then places it back down with a large bite-mark taken out of the bread as he swallows. He does the same for the scrambled eggs, half a piece of bacon, and finishes by popping an orange segment into his mouth.

Only when he's done sampling everything on my plate does he grab his, scoot it closer to his side of the table, then start eating his own meal.

I know what he's doing. He proved his point that my plate wasn't messed with, and by eating his now, his is safe, too. I could probably demand either and he'd let me have it—so long as I eat.

And, honestly, I decide to eat the breakfast after all because the continuous glint in Damien's eyes tells me that, if I don't, he has no problem jerking open my mouth and shoving the food inside. Besides, I tried a hunger strike when I was in prison. Not only did I get threatened with more time for my insolence, but when I did get weak enough to eat, I got the scraps until the guards decided I'd been punished enough.

He finishes first, watching me as I choke down every bite.