–Laura–
I always get what I want. Always. Including him. After that ridiculous slippers incident (which, by the way, should go down in history as The Great Slipper Summoning of Damien), he ca running to faster than a puppy hearing the word "treat." He knew exactly what I wanted. And no—it wasn’t slippers. It was an orgasm. A beautiful, spine-bending, breath-snatching, oh-my-God-thank-you-universe orgasm. And he gave it to , wrapped like a present I wasn’t about to return. I kept that mory clutched to my chest all night, like a dragon hoarding treasure. He may have been well-rested after my so-called "massage," but I knew what his body really craved after carrying all that stress: . Obviously.
I woke up late—definitely late—but my nose caught salvation first. The sll of bacon. Crispy, smoky, unapologetically fatty bacon. My stomach growled like a monster in a cave, and my eyes fluttered open, greeted by sunlight spilling through the open balcony and windows. The fresh air slipped into the room, playful and cool, brushing against my skin like invisible fingertips. I stretched, still half-asleep, until my gaze landed on the door.
Suitcases. My suitcases. Sitting there like smug little soldiers waiting for their queen. Damien’s, too, neat and perfect. All ready for the wedding. I blinked at them, then at the doorway—because there he was. Damien. My beautiful groom-to-be, striding in like the cover model of every romance novel I’ve ever secretly read. He carried a tray of breakfast with that grin—the one that makes want to slap him and kiss him at the sa ti.
He set the tray down beside , then crawled over with such deliberate slowness I nearly kicked him for teasing . His lips found mine, warm and claiming, and my brain went fuzzy.
"Well, my bride," he murmured, voice smug enough to spread on toast. "Did you sleep well?"
"Hmm," I purred, winding my arms around his neck like I never planned to let go. "Let’s make love again."
"Certainly not." He chuckled darkly, kissing down my neck as if he owned every inch. "Let’s get up, shall we?"
"Ughhh." I rolled my eyes so hard the back of my skull probably caught the view.
"Wedding’s near." He winked. "We gotta go."
My eyes flew open wider than frying pans. Excuse ? What do you an near? It’s not today. It’s next week. Right? RIGHT?
"Co, eat. Then we can take a shower. Your sister told you should be ready in two hours." He peppered kisses over my chest, acting like I wasn’t currently having a minor heart attack.
"Oh," I gasped dramatically, hand flying to my mouth like I’d just heard a royal scandal. Inside, panic was clawing at . ? Ready in two hours? Impossible. I’ve spent more ti choosing socks.
"She said ASAP," he added, utterly rciless.
"Ohhh nooo." I flopped back into the pillows like a tragic heroine, limbs splayed, soul leaving my body. Two hours? For ? Impossible. Maybe if they replaced with a Barbie doll, sure. But this was we were talking about.
Still, my bacon was waiting, and bacon always wins. I shoveled it into my mouth like a condemned woman’s last al, while Damien busied himself preparing our bath. He’s unfairly efficient, that man. He even insisted on helping with my hair, brushing it with maddening patience, like he’d been trained in so secret "husband grooming academy."
anwhile, I was sneaking glances at my work bag. Laptop, charger, folders—my lifeline.
"Nope." His voice cut through like a guillotine. "You can’t bring work on our wedding or honeymoon."
"Ohhkay," I pouted, clutching the strap like a toddler robbed of candy.
"We’ll relax. Your sister promised she’ll take over. David’s covering my side. The company won’t collapse in a month."
"Finee." I groaned, dragging the word like nails on glass.
He didn’t even hesitate. Just snatched everything away, shoved our devices into a drawer, locked it with a click, and smiled at like he’d just won a war. Smug bastard.
Finally, we went downstairs.
My sister was on the phone, her tone sharp and commanding, slicing through the air. Deanne stood beside her, arms folded, eyes restless. And then I caught it—the whispers. Caine. Missing. No one could track him.
The gnaw in my stomach grew teeth. I’ve known Caine since high school. He had to be at my wedding—like, it’s practically a requirent. Plus, wasn’t he and Deanne... close? Suspiciously close? I tried not to think about it, but my chest tightened anyway. Livana was clearly doing everything she could, though. And Damon—God, Damon looked half-dead, dark circles under his eyes, voice low and dangerous as he hissed threats into his phone. Like Satan negotiating new terms.
"Let’s go," Livana finally said, calm as ever, like the chaos didn’t phase her. "Jane, please stay with Laura. You go ahead. The first car already left as a decoy."
I pouted so hard my lips nearly fell off. My sister always wrapped in bubble wrap. Always. She was still pretending to be blind, too, though I knew she had her reasons.
"Sophia, Deanne. Stay with Laura too."
"But Livana," Deanne whined. "Can’t I just go and find that bastard?"
Livana scoffed, giving her the look—without actually looking directly since she’s acting blind–the one that could freeze boiling water.
"Darling, it’s far too dangerous. I know you love danger. But we can’t ruin that face and body. Your boyfriend would murder if sothing happened to you."
"He’s not my boyfriend!" Deanne hissed, cheeks pink enough to betray her.
"Mhm." We all humd like guilty schoolchildren, smiling behind our hands.
Once the bags were loaded, we set off. Two cars tailed us, loyal shadows in the morning light. I pressed a hand against my stomach, the gnawing still there. Deanne pretended to be calm, but I caught the stiffness in her jaw. Usually, n who disappeared after dangerous missions... didn’t co back.
But this was Caine. And if anyone could co back from hell itself, grinning with a sarcastic remark, it was him. At least, that’s what I told myself.
–Deanne–
Caine is not my boyfriend. Let make that clear. But we kiss like lovers, touch like sinners, and fuck like we’re trying to tear each other apart. That’s all it’s supposed to be—flesh, heat, no strings. Just two bodies colliding for relief. Simple. Clean. Disposable.
So why the hell am I worrying? Why does the thought of him vanishing twist my stomach into knots sharp enough to cut? Why does it nauseate to imagine his mouth replaced by another’s, his hands gone from my skin forever?
The truth tastes bitter: I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine so stranger’s hands wandering over , their lips pressing where his had been. My body would reject it—like poison.
If he cos back alive—and he better—I’ll make sure to ride him until he begs for rcy. A happy death. His last breath stolen between my thighs, his last thought an orgasm I gifted him. Satisfaction as execution.
I crossed my arms, narrowed my eyes at the endless stretch of road ahead. A two-hour drive—tedious. And then a jet waiting, another hour of flight to God-knows-where. Damon swore it would be safe, but safety in our world is a fragile illusion. The family? They’d only be summoned on the wedding day. Until then, we traveled like fugitives in luxury cars.
At the private airstrip, Damon’s sister and mother were already waiting. Grandma Olivia too, perched with her usual elegance. But the other one, Belinda—absent. No surprise. She probably locked herself in so corner of the estate, licking her pride after Livana’s broken engagent to Richard. We all knew she orchestrated that disaster, shoving Livana toward a man unworthy of breathing the sa air as her.
That branch of the family is rotting. A disgrace. Grandma Belinda—blind, willfully so. She never saw the betrayal crawling under her roof. Livana needs no man, but her father—ah, that cheating bastard—proved the bloodline was already tainted. I’d seen him with her aunt. Her own sister-in-law. The sha of it, the audacity. Livana saw it too. And still, her mother covered for him, played the good wife while dragging her daughter through the mud. I wouldn’t be surprised if she helped fuel the feud between our families. So won mistake martyrdom for motherhood.
"Stop seething," Sophia muttered, nudging with her elbow.
"I’m not," I hissed, my teeth gritted.
"You are."
I rolled my eyes, too sharp for an apology.
When we reached the jet, I noticed sothing unusual. Livana had deployed the Knights. That made pause. She rarely touched those pieces. The Bishops and Pawns usually handled her dirty work—efficient, expendable. But the Knights? They were her hidden blade. If she sent them out, it ant the threat wasn’t smoke. It was fire.
The jet was chaos at first—luggage, instructions, shuffling of bodies. But within thirty minutes, everything was settled. Livana and Damon stayed behind, as always the anchors of their storm. We lifted into the air without them, and I tried not to glance too often at the empty seat where Caine should have been.
When we landed, I was greeted by Damon’s choice of hideout—a mansion, sprawling and secluded, tucked away from the world like a secret lover. No maps, no curious neighbors. Classic. Probably one of Damien’s quiet purchases, slipped under another na.
The rooms were already prepared, maids waiting in line. Not ordinary maids, of course—Livana’s Pawns. Deadly little things wrapped in aprons and polite smiles. Camouflage. Disguise. They carried daggers behind their eyes.
I entered my room, closed the door, and found my luggage already tucked neatly in the cabinet. Efficient. Almost too neat. Then I heard it—the sound of water. A shower running.
My instincts sharpened. My hand slid into my pocket, fingers curling around the cold grip of my gun. Slowly, I approached the bathroom, heels silent on polished floors. The sound of the shower grew louder, taunting.
With a swift push, I flung the door open, weapon raised, ready to shoot.
And froze.
Behind the glass, water streaming down taut muscle and familiar scars, stood a body I knew too well.
He turned at the sound, droplets clinging to his skin, and that sly, infuriating smile curved his lips.
"Hello, gorgeous."
My arm dropped, the gun lowering though my pulse thundered. I frowned, masking the rush of relief clawing at my ribs.
"Caine."
Alive. Naked. Smirking at .
Damn him.
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