CHAPTER 140: BLINDFOLDED POWER

–Livana–

My husband arrived late—tipsy, as always. The faint rustle of the door, the hesitant weight of his steps, and the soft scent of alcohol intermingled with his cologne told me enough before his lips pressed gently against my head. "Livana," he whispered, as though the utterance of my name could absolve his lateness or his sins. It has always been his ritual greeting, a habit he insists upon because, in his mind, I am still blind. It’s his way of announcing his presence, as if the kiss and the whisper could prevent me from mistaking him for an intruder.

As if I needed it.

I have memorized him far more intimately than he realizes—the cadence of his breath when he’s sober versus when he’s drunk, the slightly uneven drag of his left foot after a night out, the warmth that clings to him like a second skin. His very being is a scent that refuses to fade. He still warns me of his presence because, perhaps, he fears that one day I might mistake him for the enemy and slit his throat in his sleep.

I almost wish I would.

But not tonight.

I drifted back to sleep after that shallow exchange, only to be stirred awake again by the familiar weight of his arms pulling me close, the mumble of a few drunken "I love you’s" brushing against my ear—words I never return. I have told myself, time and again, that I do not love him. This is, after all, nothing more than a marriage of convenience.

"Are you still awake?" he murmured.

"Hmm?" My reply was nothing more than a soft hum, my eyes closed as I wrestled with the lingering threads of sleep.

"Tyrona was in the meeting tonight too." He yawned, the scent of whiskey warm against my skin. "Made me think... what if another woman stole me from you?"

"Okay." I answered flatly, deliberately.

"You can’t be that nonchalant and just let me."

"You have to survive on your own."

"Yeah." He sighed, his breath tickling the nape of my neck as he buried his face there. "I must be really delusional. Even though we’re together, having you still isn’t enough to stop me from dreaming of a more... romantic version of us."

I turned to face him, my hand gliding across his chest, tracing the taut lines of his collarbone until it reached his lips. I covered his mouth with my palm.

"Should I kill you so you’ll stop being noisy?"

He chuckled against my hand and kissed it. Delusional indeed. I once thought that having me would cure him of this obsessive devotion, that his passion would burn out with time like an exhausted candle. But I was wrong. His obsession only grew, a vine wrapping tighter with every passing night. It suffocates me, but compared to the other monsters that roam this world, at least this one has learned to cradle his chains in velvet.

"I love you," he whispered again, undeterred.

His lips rained kisses across my face—cheeks, forehead, the corner of my mouth. I pushed his face away, but his arms only tightened, his fingers brushing my hip as though testing my patience. I exhaled, heavy and tired. I only wanted a night of undisturbed sleep.

Yet, I am a woman of practicalities. Sometimes, one well-timed orgasm past midnight is the easiest medicine for insomnia.

But he stopped. He lay back beside me, pulling away deliberately.

"Alright, I know you’re tired," he murmured.

I turned my back to him, lips curling faintly. He was playing me, this bastard. He knew exactly how to bait me—offering restraint, knowing full well I would loathe the silence that followed.

"Do you want to make love?"

I gave him nothing.

"Babe?"

"Shut up."

His laugh rumbled low as the duvet shifted with his movement. I smirked into the pillow. I knew he wouldn’t sleep without claiming what he always claims. Sure enough, his hand found its way beneath me, turning me gently onto my back, parting my legs with a reverence that did not match his intoxication.

I knew exactly what he was doing. I am, after all, a goddess he cannot resist.

His mouth met mine, and with slow, unhurried thrusts, he pulled me into his rhythm. I trailed my fingers along the curve of his ear, down the breadth of his shoulders. His soft grunts, the near-pathetic murmurs of my name—music, if only because it reminded me of how much power I held over this delusional man.

"My love," he panted after the cresting climax left us both breathless. "Do you want more?"

"No. I’m good." I patted his shoulder, cool and dismissive. "Help me wash up."

"Babe, you’re supposed to leave it inside you, so you’ll get pregnant." He grinned, boyishly obscene. "How about another round?"

Before I could even sigh, he moved again—too easy for him, because he had never withdrawn. He scooped me up, threw the duvet aside, and carried me to that damned S-shaped chair, never breaking the connection, savoring every fleeting twitch of expression the dim light revealed on my face.

I hate how much I enjoyed it—the third, or perhaps the fourth climax, in this unplanned second round. His fingers traced my jaw, his lips brushing mine. I never looked at him straight on, for I was supposed to be blind.

Afterwards, he helped me clean up and offered me a glass of warm water. I drank, wordless, and climbed back to bed as he fussed with the mess we left behind on that chair. Through the sheer white curtains, I watched him.

That handsome face, that body sculpted by privilege and obsession—it infuriates me how easily such things can excuse a man’s sins. Perhaps that was why, that night I was drugged, roofied, and nearly gang-raped, I allowed him to claim me instead. Because at least the one obsessed with me knew how to make the poison feel like pleasure.

He finally fell asleep.

I waited—ten, maybe fifteen minutes—until his breathing deepened, the telltale rhythm of a man in dreamless slumber. I slipped out of his arms and out of bed, silent as a ghost.

My phone blinked once on the dresser. I took it and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me and leaving the main lights off. A blind woman doesn’t need them, after all.

Logan’s report was waiting.

Photos. Faces. Men under Alejandro Madrigal. Predators circling the Lancer family, though I am certain they still haven’t discovered that the remnants of my mother’s allies are hidden away.

A knot twisted in my stomach. I hated that it did. The Lancers were not my problem—not truly. But Louie Lancer stepping into the light, parading himself as the CEO of my mother’s company? That was no coincidence.

I called Logan. He answered on the first ring.

"So, are you going?" he asked.

"I’ll be there. Call the Knights."

"The Knights?" His tone sharpened. "You’re serious about this?"

"The Knights and the Bishop protect the Lancers. It’s only right. But we need to cut off Madrigal’s shadows before they strike. Alejandro may be dead, but his men still move like ghosts."

Are they under Tyrona now? Should I dismantle her father’s name first, ruin her foundation before she even attempts to ruin mine?

"Do you think Tyrona is capable of this?"

"No," I said, slipping off my nightgown as the shower hissed to life. "I think someone else is backing her. She’s inching her way into Damon’s circle of friends."

Logan chuckled darkly. "Isn’t this that old adage? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?"

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Perhaps you’re right. I’ll be there."

I ended the call and let the warm water wash the remnants of him from my skin. I avoided perfume, avoided any scented lotions—tonight, I needed to be invisible.

In the walk-in closet, I chose a black suit—sleek, silent, dangerous. Purse in hand, I slipped through the hidden passage leading to the garage.

Deanne was already waiting, handing me a black spray for my hair. Sophia emerged next, a mask of reluctance softening her usual boldness.

"Your husband will lose his mind when he finds out you’re gone," Sophia warned. "Are you sure you don’t want me with you?"

"You can keep watch on my husband."

"I can’t," Sophia sighed. "Kai needs me."

I frowned, sharp and cold. "Then knock him out."

She only shrugged. I shook my head. "Let’s go, D. We need to meet Logan."

The engine purred to life. We switched cars twice before reaching the rendezvous near the old farm. Logan climbed into the van, laptop in hand, the pale glow of surveillance lighting his face.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked again.

"Yes," I murmured, eyes fixed on the live feed. "Tell the Knights to secure the Lancers. I think they’ve already found one of the developers of that program."

And if they have, it’s only a matter of time before they find the rest—before they find me.