CHAPTER 119: THE BRIDE’S DRAMA, THE SIREN’S DAGGER

–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 came running to me 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 me, wrapped like a present I wasn’t about to return. I kept that memory 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: me. Obviously.

I woke up late—definitely late—but my nose caught salvation first. The smell 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 me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

He set the tray down beside me, then crawled over with such deliberate slowness I nearly kicked him for teasing me. 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 me?

What do you mean near? It’s not today. It’s next week. Right? RIGHT?

"Come, eat. Then we can take a shower. Your sister told me 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 me. Me? Ready in two hours? Impossible. I’ve spent more time choosing socks.

"She said ASAP," he added, utterly merciless.

"Ohhh nooo." I flopped back into the pillows like a tragic heroine, limbs splayed, soul leaving my body. Two hours? For me? Impossible. Maybe if they replaced me with a Barbie doll, sure. But this was me 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 meal, 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 some secret "husband grooming academy."

Meanwhile, 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 me 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 requirement. 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 me 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 me if something happened to you."

"He’s not my boyfriend!" Deanne hissed, cheeks pink enough to betray her.

"Mhm." We all hummed 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, men who disappeared after dangerous missions... didn’t come back.

But this was Caine. And if anyone could come 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 me 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 me 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 some stranger’s hands wandering over me, their lips pressing where his had been. My body would reject it—like poison.

If he comes back alive—and he better

—I’ll make sure to ride him until he begs for mercy. 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 some corner of the estate, licking her pride after Livana’s broken engagement to Richard. We all knew she orchestrated that disaster, shoving Livana toward a man unworthy of breathing the same 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 shame 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. Some women mistake martyrdom for motherhood.

"Stop seething," Sophia muttered, nudging me 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 something unusual. Livana had deployed the Knights. That made me 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 meant 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 name.

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 me.

Damn him.