𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

34

I'm standing at the bathroom counter, still a little damp from my shower as I brush through my hair. The repetitive motions are soothing, letting me drift a little mentally.

Damien strolls in, already looking sharp in a charcoal gray suit. He leans against the doorframe, eyes roaming over me approvingly.

"Lookin' good, baby," he rumbles in that low tone. "Do you feel like going out tonight?"

I pause, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "Where are we going?"

Damien shrugs one shoulder casually. "Some club, meeting with the Omerta cartel about bringing them in as allies against the Ramirez'."

But before I can respond, Damien continues, "But, you don't have to come if you're not feeling up for it. No pressure."

I search his face, trying to gauge if he really means that. He usually doesn't give me a choice. Damien's been so...careful with me lately. Like he's walking on eggshells. Of course, I know why. And any regular person would appreciate that, but me?

I can't stand it. Because every time he does that, every time he looks at me with that worried furrow between his brows, all it does is remind me of why he's doing it in the first place. It drags up all the pain, all the gut-wrenching agony of losing Penny and failing her in the worst possible way.

I don't want to be coddled. I don't want to be treated like I'm breakable. I need to feel...normal, not be constantly reminded of the wound that will never fully heal.

Going out gives me a chance to push everything down and slap on that pretty, hollow smile I've gotten so good at doing these days. So, I don't even hesitate before giving a small nod. "I'm coming."

"You sure?" he checks one more time. "Because like I said- "

"I'm sure," I interrupt firmly, turning away from the mirror to face him.

Damien holds my gaze for a little longer before giving a decisive nod of his own. "Well in that case," he rumbles, uncrossing his arms to slowly walk toward me. "We better get you outta that towel and into something...more persuasive."

I huff out a breath, as I let the towel drop. Being "persuasive" is a role I've mastered to almost perfection. For Damien, I can be anything he needs me to be.

The dress Damien picks out is a showstopper; skintight in deep, midnight blue, with a plunging neckline and a slit that goes up to my hip.

As he finishes with the zipper, I turn in his arms, my expression growing serious. "I've been meaning to ask...with Lymon gone, do you think I could finally get a divorce? I mean, we can't exactly report his death to the cops, so he's technically 'missing' now, so..."

Damien just chuckles, kissing my forehead. "Cat, you're talking to a man with judges, cops, and lawyers in his pocket. I can have a death certificate for that prick in 15 minutes."

Relief floods through me, "Thank you," I murmur, rising up on my tiptoes, my body pressing against Damien's as I loop my arms around his neck, kissing him.

Damien grins against my mouth, nipping playfully at my bottom lip before pulling back. "Speaking of divorce... I gotta ask, why did your parents let you get hitched to a 42-year-old creep when you were 16?"

I sigh, "It's the custom in the Order," I explain bitterly. "My parents basically just shipped me off to be a good little wife and baby machine."

Damien's jaw clenches, "And how many 'wives' did that sick fuck have, exactly?"

"Twenty," I spit out, the number tasting like acid on my tongue. "But only six of us lived with him full-time. I was his only legal wife; the rest were just 'spiritual marriages'. The more wives a man has, the higher his place in heaven or some shit."