CHAPTER 111: HIS ARMS, HER STRATEGY

–Livana–

I know my husband is impulsive—recklessly so. He makes a mess, and poor Caine is always left cleaning up the aftermath. Damon is idiotic... but I like him that way. Every marriage needs one fool to keep the balance intact.

I touched my temple, trying to soothe the dull, persistent throb. A disco or a strip club—those places just aren’t for me. The screams, the flashing lights, the lewdness of it all—sure, they’re fun in the moment, but now the echoes linger. I can still hear the high-pitched squeals of women teetering on the edge of orgasm, ringing like a chorus in the back of my mind. Maybe it’s a hangover... but it feels more like a punishment. My head pounds, and even my vision, though I pretend not to have it, is a blur of static behind my closed lids.

"What’s wrong?" Damon’s voice, low and near, came just as his hand touched my shoulder.

"It’s just... my head," I mumbled.

"Are you pregnant already?" he asked, far too quickly. I frowned and turned my face to him, giving him that signature blank, blind stare.

"You’re stupid. Idiotic, actually. That’s the word I’d use."

He laughed and cupped my jaw with one hand while the other slid gently, possessively, around my neck—not tight, but enough to feel his presence.

"Then maybe an orgasm would help relieve it?" he teased, his voice thick with amusement.

"No. I’ll just sleep this off," I murmured. "Take me to bed."

"Nah, we can do it here." I could feel his grin even with my eyes shut. His lips found mine, and he pressed in, tongue demanding entrance. I let him. I always do. Then I gently pushed him away.

"Where are Grandma Olivia and Grandpa Rae?"

"Off on a date," he replied.

"And Laura and Damien?"

"Eloped, I think."

I froze.

"What?"

"I’m kidding." He laughed, scooping me up into his arms. "Sleep first. We’ll talk about Tyrona’s proposal on that land later."

"Tyrona?" I echoed, brows pinched as he carried me up the stairs.

"Yeah, the one from the Race Club—she offered that land through Alejandro, remember?"

"Oh." My skull felt like it was about to crack as I curled into his chest. His scent was familiar, calming—something between cedarwood and destruction.

"Forget about it," he said.

When he laid me gently on the bed, I crawled toward the pillows and sank into them.

"Medicine first," he called, but I didn’t move. After a few moments, he came to me, propped me up, fed me the pills, and followed with a bottle of water. He wiped my lips tenderly before I lay back down.

He sat beside me and pressed a remote to close the blinds. I felt his hand search for mine, and then his lips touched my knuckles—delicate, reverent.

"Liva," he whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I really love you."

"Shut up." I tried to focus on sleep, but his presence lingered like a weight on my chest. "Just lie down and stop staring at me."

He chuckled and released my hand. For a second, I thought he’d leave. But then I heard the rustle of clothing. I cracked my eye open.

This idiot had slipped under the duvet, fully naked. And hard.

"Fuck," I muttered.

"Hmm?" His voice was far too pleased. "You horny?"

"Leave," I said coldly.

"Hell, no." He shifted closer. "Just sleep, alright? Ignore me. You know I love to sleep naked, hard, and thinking of you."

I pushed him away and tugged the blanket over myself, turning my back on him. But he simply molded to me, snuggling close from behind, his erection pressing against my spine. I focused on sleep, and to my surprise, I slipped into it—wrapped in his arms like a vice, his breath hot against my neck.

When I woke up, I felt stiff. His arms had locked around me during the night, his face buried in my neck like a wolf guarding its kill. I nudged him and gently pushed myself free.

I exhaled and slipped out of bed. Then I glared at him—at that stupidly perfect body, all chiseled abs and Greek tragedy. I hate him. He knows I hate him.

I left the bedroom with my walking stick and carefully descended the stairs. As I reached the bottom, I was met with an awkward scene: Caine and Deanne were locked in a stare-off while Caine held... a box of condoms?

I quickly looked away and tapped my walking stick against the floor with calculated precision.

"Liva," Deanne called. I extended my hand to find the wooden stair rail and began making my way down. Caine approached and took my hand.

"Caine?"

"Yup, it’s me." His voice was grinning.

He led me to the sofa, and I heard the unmistakable rustle of that condom box. He waved it in front of my face. Testing me again. Idiot.

"I heard your voices earlier. What were you arguing about?" I asked.

"This." He lifted the condom with theatrical flair.

"Are you seriously still waving that in front of my face?" I asked, my tone dropping a few degrees colder.

He chuckled.

"Yeah." He sighed. "She told me to buy it, but when we got home, we didn’t even use it." He sounded genuinely betrayed.

"Why would I use it?" Deanne scoffed. "You’re the one who should use it. And how many times do I have to remind you—a brothel isn’t far from here. Plenty of women in rave outfits are just dying for you to ask them to fuck."

"Oh," I leaned back. "That’s... intriguing."

"That includes Tyrona," Deanne said with a venomous hiss. "I swear, I want to kill that bitch."

"There’s a time for that," I said calmly, and she seemed to relax.

"Hey, Tyrona doesn’t want to fuck me," Caine defended himself. "I’m not into her either."

I smiled to myself. These two really were a perfect disaster.

"Well," Deanne said dryly, "if you did a strip dance, she might reconsider. And then we’d have a clear chance to kill her."

The two of them continued their bickering like hormonal teenagers, and I just sat there—blind, amused, and calculating.

–Damon–

I had a nice afternoon nap—or more accurately, I passed out like a corpse. Woke up at eight in the evening with absolutely no regrets. Now the question is: what do I do with the rest of the night? Just go back to sleep like a monk?

No.

I have a wife. A gorgeous, conniving, elegant creature who looks sinfully good even when she pretends to be blind. I think it’s about time we properly consummate this so-called honeymoon... all night long.

I threw on something decent—nothing too formal, just enough to look good while peeling it off later—and made my way downstairs. I expected silence. Maybe the scent of food or wine. But instead?

Carrie.

Sitting there on my damn sofa like she owns the place.

She smiled at me—that smile. The smug, manipulative kind that women like her wear like perfume. God, she’s a walking migraine. That face alone ruined my mood. I needed my wife to fix it immediately.

"Liva," I called out, ignoring Carrie entirely. "Where’s Livana?" I asked Jane, who was in her apron, balancing trays like some culinary ballerina.

"She’s in the kitchen," Jane replied politely. "Miss Livana said to serve the guest."

Guest. Right.

"Hmm," I smirked, strolling toward the long sofa and planting myself across from Carrie. I leaned forward, my gaze locked on her like a predator sizing up a wounded animal. "It’s surprising that you’re here."

"Of course. I wouldn’t miss my sister’s wedding."

I nodded slowly, savoring the moment.

"Oh, that’s right," I said with a faint grin. "You’re the illegitimate one."

No reaction. Impressive. She didn’t even flinch. That almost made it boring.

"I imagine it’s awkward for everyone when you call them ’sister,’ considering you’re more of a... misprint in the family book."

Just then, Livana arrived. Walking stick in hand, head high, calm and graceful like a queen pretending to be delicate. I got up and immediately went to her, guiding her to the long sofa beside me, opposite Carrie.

Jane returned with a tray of tea and something else I didn’t care to notice.

"Have some tea," Livana offered. "You missed the party last night."

"Oh, you intentionally left me out," Carrie snapped.

"It wasn’t intentional," Livana said sweetly, with a smirk that could cut glass. "It’s more like... we forgot you exist."

God, I love this woman.

I glanced at Carrie. Her face twisted ever so slightly, just enough for the bitterness to bubble to the surface. She picked up the teacup, hesitated. I smirked and leaned back, watching the show unfold.

"Go on," I said casually. "Drink it."

The silence stretched just the right amount—pregnant with tension and petty hatred.

"What’s wrong?" Livana asked, her voice deceptively innocent. "I didn’t hear a sip."

"You poisoned it, didn’t you?" Carrie hissed.

Livana’s expression lit up, amused and radiant.

"Wow. What made you think that?"

Carrie put the cup down. Carefully. Almost theatrically.

"I don’t know. You hate me."

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," Livana laughed lightly. "I don’t hate you. Hate requires effort. You, Carrie, are simply... irrelevant. I don’t waste time on things that don’t matter."

She’s a goddess. Cold-blooded, precise. I was grinning like a demon in the shadows.

"You’re the one who drugged me, remember?" Livana went on. "I was supposed to get gang-raped by the animals you hired. Instead, I ended up having a one-night stand with Damon. The only good part of your plan, really."

I tensed for a second, that memory clawing its way up—but not from regret. From rage. From obsession. That night was chaos, but it changed everything. She forced herself into my life, and I never wanted her to leave again.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Carrie said sharply, trying to look innocent. But her eyes—those guilty, trembling eyes—betrayed her.

"Oh, don’t act like a saint," Livana snapped. "I didn’t even hate you when you were riding Richard’s cock in my house."

Goddamn.

I snorted, tilting my head to hide the smug satisfaction. Carrie was turning a shade redder than a murder scene. It was glorious.

"Liva, you never knew how to handle a man," Carrie spat bitterly. "Look at Damon, he’s—"

"Damon is perfect," Livana said flatly. "He’s good at everything. With him, I’ve never had to fake an orgasm."

Boom.

Carrie’s jaw clenched, her face the color of shame and tomato soup. I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing out loud.

Savage. Absolutely savage.

My wife had just stripped her down with words sharper than any knife. And the best part? She did it blind.

God, I’m never letting her go.