18. Fortieth

EIGHTEEN

When Damien never mentioned this birthday dinner of his, I try not to be offended.

I'm not really his wife. I'm basically his glorified prisoner. This is a celebration of forty years of his life while I've only been in it for, what, a little more than two weeks?

Of course, if you ask him, he's decided that we've known each other for months. He counts it from the first moment he spied me watching him, even when he didn't know my name, only that I was stalking him. Why? No idea, except that annoys me, and he seems to find that funny.

Dick.

What makes it sting a little more is how it's not like he didn't have time to tell me that his entire Family—plus those affiliated with the Dragonflies, like Dr. Liz—was throwing him this elaborate dinner. Because of his insistence that we share at least one meal a day before I inevitably end up sleeping beside him in either his bed or my cot, he could've mentioned it at any point.

He didn't—and that's why I'm so confused when Damien arrives home on the afternoon of the party, frowning when he finds me watching the next episode of a series I've been binging on his big television.

In his arms, he's holding a dry-cleaning bag that's probably his outfit for tonight. Because, knowing my new husband, he probably had to get another black suit for the occasion.

"Savannah? Why haven't you gotten ready yet?"

I'm wearing a sweater and jeans, my hair pulled back in a ponytail because I'll be damned if I try to get myself all dolled up. I'm already having a hard time not falling for his charm—which, I'm sure, is part of his plan… to make me not only give up my plan of revenge, but to actually start liking him a little before he decides his fun is over and he finishes me off. To give him a reason to start his seductive, sexual onslaught?

No, thanks.

But he seems so surprised that I'm vegging out, I almost feel bad for him. "Why would I be getting ready?"

It's not like I'm invited to this dinner?—

"Because we have to leave in two hours to be on time. Here. I stopped in early to make sure you have this."

Ignoring how he seems to think I'm going anywhere with him, I'm curious enough to take the dry-cleaning bag from him. I honestly thought it was a suit, especially when I could see the black material through plastic, but once I unzip it, it's obvious it's not a suit.

It's a strapless black cocktail dress—and it's just my size.

I glance up at him. "What's this for?"

"Dinner. Since this is the first time you'll be meeting some of the other members of my Family, I thought it called for something special."

His matter-of-fact answer has me confused now.

"Wait? Why? You think I'm going to it?"

Damien's lips thin. "You're my wife. Where else would you be?"

"I dunno." Where else would I be? With the tracker in my arm and eyes watching my every fucking move…. "Here. With Orion."

For some reason, that answer only seems to piss him off more.

"Our cook has the afternoon and evening off. So does Frankie and Annette. Vin will be at the dinner. Genevieve, too. Is this your way of trying to leave me? Stay behind and escape? Because I should remind you, my dear… I can always find you."

Trust me. I don't need the reminder.

"Hey. Don't be an ass. I didn't think you wanted me there." Just in case it isn't clear… "You never told me about it."

"Why would I? My sister told me that she did."

No. Genevieve mentioned it, then we got distracted trying find a can of pumpkin puree to help Orion poop. That ended with Damien's cook calling someone up to make a trip to the store, bringing us a can so that Genevieve could feed spoonfuls of the dark orange mush to Orion by hand.

He had a monster shit that night, and a tentative friendship between Genevieve and I was formed.

So long as I understand she'll use her powerful ballerina legs to kick the shit out of me if I ever try to hurt her big brother again, and she gets that I'll let her play with Orion, but she better never hurt him, we're good.

Plus, she's the one who turned me onto this new show. When she's taking breaks from rehearsing upstairs—or when her ankle injury flares up—she usually comes down to the second floor, plops onto the couch with me and Orion in Damien's big television room, and asks perkily, "So, what are are we watching today?"

The dinner? Hasn't come up, and I was struggling with why I was feeling so rejected for not getting an invite, I didn't have time to mention it to Gen.

I don't want to explain all of that to Damien. Honestly, I don't own him an explanation, either. Just because he thought Gen brought it up to me, that doesn't excuse him from doing the same.

I think he comes to that same conclusion at the same time. He sighs. "A miscommunication on my part, then. But that doesn't change things. I want you at the dinner. You will join me." He gestures at the dress in my lap. "And you will wear that."

You know what? I will. For two reasons, too. One: I haven't been out of the house since Frankie caught me trying to hop the gate; even then, that doesn't really count because I never even got off the property. I'm not planning to run or anything—especially since I'm sure Damien will have at least a few someones watching me—but if the opportunity provides itself, you never know. And two: I still haven't put on all of my weight back, but I still think I can rock this dress.

Maybe show Damien what he's never gonna have.

Clutching the dress to my chest, I'm careful to avoid brushing it along the top of Orion's furry butt so that I don't get more cat fur on it than I already have. I get to my feet, meeting the dare written in every line of his face.

"Two hours?" I think of what's in the bathroom. He has a blow dryer and, not surprisingly, my meager make-up bag also made it to Damien's house after the Dragonflies visited my apartment. It's not much, but it'll do. "I'll be ready in an hour and a half."

I just makemy self-imposed deadline. After shimmying the dress on, I blew out my hair, forming tousled waves using my brush and my fingers. A little mascara, eye liner, some blush, and my favorite lip finish the job, and I'm looking the best I have in a long, long time as I leave the bathroom.

Damien's sitting on the bed, looking at his phone when the door opens. His head snaps up, and I have to swallow my grin when he sucks in a breath.

"Savannah…"

I run my hands down the sides of my hip, smoothing the dress. "You like?"

"Very much." He tosses his phone to the bed, then gets to his feet. "Let me look at you."

I turn so he can get the full effect, but that's not what he means. Taking me by the hand, I stumble in my bare feet until he has me right in front of the floor-length mirror in his room.

"Bellissima, ragna mia. My black widow, you are beautiful."

Damien moves so that he's behind me, gazing at my reflection in the mirror with me. Swooping up my loose hair, he sets it over my shoulder before bending down to press a kiss to the bare back of the other one.

I can't stop myself from reacting. Closing my eyes so that I don't have to see the lust in them reflecting back at me, I angle my head so that I'm giving him better access to my throat.

Damien's hot mouth as he suckles my skin burns me up from the inside out. I keen a little, and he chuckles against my neck.

Then, as suddenly as the moment began, it's over. He's lifting his head up, though with my eyes still closed, I sense movement as he reaches around me.

My heart stutters in my chest. Is this it? Did he finally decide he was tired of me and was getting into position to… what? Stab me? Choke me? Strangle me?

Something settles on my chest. My eyes spring open in time to see that he's looped a silver chain around my throat. In my panic, I think garotte, but it isn't. It's a gleaming silver chain with a pair of charms hanging off the center.

Wearing a pleased smirk, Damien fastens it, then runs his thumb along the top of my shoulder.

I'm still staring at the necklace he just put on me.

"What's this?"

"I had it personally made for you, ragna mia. A dress like this calls for accessories, don't you agree?"

And because he did have it made for me, the pair of charms are quite fitting.

The larger one is a silver dragonfly. And the other? Is a knife.

My breath catches in my throat. In his way, Damien's marked me as his just as much as the scar on his side from his knife is proof that he decided to make me mine.

"Well?" he murmurs, nuzzling my temple as I do absolutely shit-all to stop him. "What do you think?"

I think that, if I honestly believed that I might win this war against Damien Libellula, I was fucking fooling myself.

It's not a tattoo that marks me as his property like every other woman who gets suckered into joining his Family. Oh, no. I haven't earned that yet… but he's marked me all the same, and any hope that I might be able to annul this fake marriage and start my life over with Orion flittered away the moment the silver dragonfly touched my chest.

And the worst part is, I'm not so sure how I feel about that at all…

The high fromDamien's reaction to my appearance lasts through the second course of dinner.

I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did. From the moment I follow at Damien's heels, walking into the elaborate private room at La Vita Vino, I already know I'm way out of my element. The dress, shoes he also bought for me, and the necklace help so that I fit in; most women in this room are wearing a variation of my evening wear, except for maybe Genevieve, who's gorgeous in a flowing, pale pink dress that looks striking with her blonde updo.

It's Damien's party, but she's the belle of the ball. Her outspoken, vivacious personality has her talking to everyone, and if I was anything like that, she'd be dragging me by the hand, showing me off to all of the guests.

I've never been like that. Even before my stint inside, I've always been more of an introvert. A loner. That's why I ran my store by myself, too. I don't really like people.

But does that mean it doesn't bother me that, once we arrive, my ‘husband' ditches me almost immediately.

He has a place at the head of the main table. Two suits are sitting next to him, and the only thing stopping me from being irrationally jealous that I'm tucked all the way at a small circle table across the room is the fact that everyone at that main table is a guy. Not even Genevieve is sitting with Damien, though that might be because she's flitting all around the place, joining whichever table has an empty seat.

Just because Gen is occupied and, between courses, Damien is obviously still avoiding me, that doesn't mean I'm sitting by myself.

Oh, no. I have a babysitter.

I should've expected as much. When Vin plopped down in the seat next to me for the hors d'oeuvres course, one look at his scowl and I know that Damien put him up to it.

I'm not fooled by the scowl. He might hate me because he was the one who was seconds late to stop me from turning Damien's knife on him, but he's nowhere near as scary as he wants me to think he is. I've seen him with Genevieve, and even if I could brush that off as him taking care of his baby cousin, I caught him tossing one of Orion's catnip mice for him.

After the appetizers, but before the salad, Gen decides that I need to be a part of the socialization.

I get introduced to Christopher, Genevieve's friend I've actually already heard a bunch about, plus his boyfriend, Paul. Gio stops over to ask how I'm liking the bed he and his buys put together, and I find out that one of the other dark-haired suits who was there that day is an enforcer named Oliver who congratulates me when he notices my necklace.

Apart from that, no one makes any reference to the fact that I'm Damien's wife at all.

That's not a surprise, either. I get the vibe that, for weeks now, I've been his dirty, little secret. Just because he insisted I come with him to this party, that didn't mean it was going to change.

So it sucks, but I force myself to eat my salad, refuse any offers of alcohol, and try my fucking best not to look around the room in search of dinner.

Even Dr. Liz stops by my table to say ‘hello', a flute of champagne in her hand. She's wearing a cream-colored dress that shows off a surprisingly flattering shape. I guess, since I only saw her while she was wearing scrubs and a white coat, I shouldn't have assumed, but she looks really good—something that Vin obviously notices.

Her friendly smile is a welcome when mostly everyone else in the room is either watching me curiously or, following Damien's lead, pretending I'm not even here.

Once she drifts away, heading off to talk to someone else, Vin grunts out bluntly, "Gotta take a shit. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

I don't say anything. I'd suspect he's really trailing behind Dr. Liz, trying to get her alone for a moment, but even if he does have to poop? I didn't need to know that, and I really don't care.

Vin takes my silence as an agreement that I'm going to sit tight like a good little girl, then pushes himself out of the seat.

We're between courses again. At the rate this is going, dinner is going to take five hours by the time it's done since there's a good twenty minutes between meals where everyone gathered can chat. I resign myself to sitting alone, waiting to see if the main course gets served first or Vin comes back to babysit me.

Two minutes after he got up—and not enough time for him to go the bathroom—someone takes Vin's seat.

"I've been waiting all night for a chance to talk to you."

Oh? Shifting in my seat, I look at my new companion.

He's about my age, maybe a year or two younger. He has dark blond hair in a money cut, deep brown eyes, and a winning smile that might've worked on Georgia as he slings his arm onto the back of my seat, trying to pull me into it.

It might've worked on Georgia.

Savannah doesn't have time for his shit. "That's nice. But I'm here with someone, so…"

"I know. I saw you with Vinnie. No knock on him, but I think I might be a better catch. Besides," he adds, using his other hand to trail down my nearest empty forearm, "if he liked you so much, you'd be marked as his property before he brought you around the rest of the Family. Since he didn't, you're fair game."

I am?

I don't bother correcting him that I'm here with Damien, not Vin. It's not of his business, and regardless of how these Dragonflies treat their women, I'm not about to let him treat me like he can own me.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

His hand is still close enough to my arm that, when I go to get up, he tightens his fingers around my wrist. "I don't think you understand. I didn't come here with a date. They didn't give me a plus one. I'm getting laid tonight, and I picked you. So instead of trying to play hard to get, just be grateful that I'm paying you any attention."

Idiot. Doesn't he realize that attention is the last thing I want, especially from some creep?

I break free of him, taking a few steps away from the table. There's an exit not too far on this side of the private room. It leads to a hall where the bathrooms are, and an employee's only door. If I have to hide out in the ladies' room to get away from this prick, I will.

He doesn't like this idea.

His hand is like a vice on my arm as he latches onto me again. "I said?—"

I don't give a fuck what he said.

Jerking my elbow out of his hold, I whirl on him. I knee him in the dick, hoping that the pain will be enough to get this asshole to let me get away from him. I'm not even thinking about the fact that the room is full and I'm probably making a scene. I just want to escape.

One the plus side, it is. Grunting out a, ‘you fucking bitch', under his breath, he immediately releases me. Unfortunately, that leaves his hands free—and almost as if it's an unconscious reaction on his part, he fucking backhands me.

It doesn't feel the greatest. The slap of his hand against my cheek is almost deafening, and I gasp more because the force of his hit has me falling to my knee than because it's that painful.

I catch myself before I overbalance and land flat on my face.

And that's when I see a familiar pair of dress shoes in my line a vision a split second before someone grips my arm possessive, helping me back to my heels.

But it's not that creep.

It's Damien.