CHAPTER 96: OBSESSIVE LOVE

–Damon–

I didn’t expect my wife to come back to the villa. I thought she’d be too pissed—or too tired. But there she was, walking in with her grandfather, fashionably late for dinner. Not that it mattered. We hadn’t started yet anyway. I was far too busy plotting Alejandro Madrigal’s unfortunate, deliciously brutal demise. Sophia asked for my help, and of course, I agreed.

Not out of kindness—don’t insult me. No. I agreed because I want to claw that bastard’s eyes out. He keeps ogling my wife like she’s something he can have. News flash: she’s mine. Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to worship. No one gets to sexualize my wife like that in front of me and live to smirk about it.

"Wifey!" I bolted toward her, ignoring the dagger-filled stare her grandfather sent my way. I scooped her into my arms like I hadn’t seen her in years, kissing her cheeks loudly—obnoxiously—rubbing my nose and lips all over her skin.

"Bastard," Grandpa Reagan muttered under his breath, probably wishing he had a cane to hit me with.

Whatever. I couldn’t help being a child around her. I’d been waiting for hours, okay?

She pushed my face away with a sigh. "I’m starving."

"Yes, ma’am!" I grinned. "Food! Prepare the table!" I barked like a mad king and immediately snatched her purse from her hand, escorting her toward the dining room like she was royalty.

Sophia, Deanne, and Caine were in aprons, finishing up at the table. A rare sight—like a crime syndicate-themed cooking show.

"You guys cooked all this?" I asked, raising a brow.

"You don’t know how to cook?" Livana’s question hit me like a frying pan.

I blinked. "Baby, I was... busy. But I’ll cook for you tomorrow. I promise." I pulled her chair out like a gentleman and she sat, her movements so graceful it made me want to write poetry and set it on fire.

I reached into her purse, pulled out a scrunchie, and carefully tied her hair like I’d done it a thousand times. (I have.) The sight of her nape? My new religion.

"So, about that project I asked you to refine," She said, turning to Sophia.

"It’s hard to make it artistic, Liva," Sophia replied casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of us. "Tonight, we’re doing Japanese dinner."

Deanne poured water into Grandpa’s goblet as he sat at the head of the table. "Thank you, dear."

I sat beside my wife and plated her dinner with surgical precision. Equal portions, balanced bites. Presentation matters.

"I don’t eat raw salmon," she muttered.

I nodded solemnly. "I know. That’s why there’s no raw salmon on your plate. I swore a vow to you."

We all finally settled down. Kai proudly announced that he grilled the tuna. Clearly trying to impress Grandpa. I don’t blame him—respect from that old war dragon is rare.

Grandpa squinted at the tuna and grunted, "You overcooked it."

Francis snickered while Kai pouted like a five-year-old whimpering like a dog.. He’s a grown man. But I didn’t mind. It made Livana smile although she couldn’t see him and that’s my drug.

"I’m kidding," Grandpa added with a smirk, and Kai lit up like a Christmas tree.

"But Gramps, do you prefer raw or cooked?" Kai asked, out of nowhere.

I leaned my elbow on the table, half-listening, eyes locked on my wife as she chewed slowly like some divine being.

"Take your elbow off the table, you rascal. It’s bad luck."

I immediately pulled back and leaned in toward my wife, whispering, "Your grandpa’s always angry."

Her lips curved. A miracle.

"We’re leaving early tomorrow. Don’t stay up late," Grandpa said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He barely ate.

"You’re done already, Gramps? We’ve got dessert."

"Let’s have it in the drawing room. I need to speak with you after dinner," he said in that no-arguments Navy voice.

Ugh. I don’t want to be that grumpy when I’m old. When I retire, I’m going to annoy Livana every single second of the day. Even if she’s tired of me. Especially if she’s tired of me. That’s the dream. And yes—we’ll still do it. Just to traumatize the younger generation.

"Are you eating, Damon?"

"Oh. Yeah." I shoveled food onto my plate. I’d need the energy later.

She ate slowly, so I caught up, then followed everyone into the drawing room where dessert awaited. Logan tagged along while the others did the dishes.

Grandpa frowned when he saw me.

"What?" I asked, guiding my wife to the sofa like a gentleman. "I’m part of the family."

"He can stay, Grandpa," Livana said softly, squeezing my hand. Victory.

I grinned and parked myself right next to her, arm behind her on the couch like the territorial maniac I am.

"Alright." Grandpa picked up his sherry cup and small spoon. "This looks good."

"Enjoy," Deanne chimed, casual and unbothered. Logan sat across the room.

"So," Grandpa started, "we met with the Secretary of Defense at the Pentagon."

I froze. My gaze snapped to Livana.

"They’re trying to convince us to surrender the device my daughter worked on. But we can’t. That device holds enough intel to start a world war."

I blinked. "And they let you walk out of there?"

"Of course." Grandpa leaned back with the confidence of a man who’d stared death in the face and told it to sit down. "But they’ll dig. Hard. They’ll try to find dirt to get it."

My jaw clenched. "You think the allied nations will work together?"

"There’s a high chance they’ll form a temporary alliance. Just to corner us." He pointed a tiny spoon at me. "You need to ensure your operations stay clean. Don’t get involved. Let your men handle it."

"Hm." I crossed my arms, then turned to my wife. "And how do you plan to respond, love?"

She leaned back coolly. "I’ll lay low. Deanne will face them. Sophia’s on the field with Logan. Me? I’ll chill."

"Good." Grandpa nodded in approval and handed Deanne his empty dish. "By the way, Deanne. It’s about time you got married. Want me to introduce you to some candidates?"

I frowned. "Seriously?"

Sophia laughed, while Deanne smirked—right at my wife.

"Hey!" I jumped in front of Livana like a human shield. "Back. Off."

Grandpa Reagan just laughed like this was comedy hour.

"Not cool, Grandpa." I shook my head. "No one gets my wife. Not even Deanne. I’ll fight her. I’ll throw hands."

No one steals Livana. No man. No woman. No god.

Let that be written in blood.

–Livana–

It’s always a comfort having my husband with me when I bathe. He takes his time, never rushing. His hands are gentle yet deliberate as he massages the lotions and oils my skin needs. I feel the coolness of the cream at first, then the warmth of his palms spreading evenly across my body, coaxing out the tension in my muscles.

He rubs my scalp with a wooden head massager—slow, circular motions that lull me into near sleep. The bristles graze my skin, grounding me in the moment. Then he takes a soft-bristled brush and begins to work through my hair, untangling it from the roots down to the tips that reach my waist. He braids it with surprising care, securing it loosely so it doesn’t knot while I sleep.

"I was thinking," he murmured, rubbing slow, circular patterns on my sides. His gaze lingers on me—I can feel the weight of it. I know he’s staring at my naked form, freshly oiled and still damp from the bath. "Another wedding? And this time, a honeymoon after?"

"Hmm." I smiled as I reached up and smoothed lotion across his broad shoulders. He doesn’t usually like using lotion—he says it’s sticky—but I insist. I want his skin soft when he holds me. When he cuddles me. It’s selfish, maybe, but I love how he feels against me.

"Come on, please?" he whined playfully, peppering my face with kisses.

"I want to focus on other things for now," I said, caressing his arm. "Maybe next year. But this time, we have to make sure Laura’s wedding is perfect—and secure."

"Okay," he mumbled, voice childlike as he buried his face into my neck with a sulky sigh.

"I’m sleepy. We have to leave early tomorrow."

He pouted again. I could hear it in his tone, and could practically feel the way his lips pushed forward. I kept my eyes on his mouth—still pretending to be blind, even though I could picture every expression he made by now.

"Can you pack up our things?"

"Fine," he grunted. "But since we’re already naked... skin to skin... let’s just skip ahead to making love."

Before I could protest, he stood and scooped me into his arms, taking me straight to the bed. His lips found their way between my thighs, and I gasped, breathless. Every flick of his tongue set my nerves alight. There was no need for anything else—no preparation, no slick distractions. My body was already ready for him.

He slid in easily and began to thrust—deep, hungry, relentless. I moaned at the delicious slap of our bodies meeting, the rhythm of it echoing in the quiet room. My fingers gripped the sheets. His growls, his whispered filth, his possessive praises—each word made me ache more.

Then, he shifted. I felt him press against a sensitive spot just below my navel, rubbing as he thrust—and that was it. My release came violently, over and over.

"No, baby. It’s not over," he groaned, voice gravel and heat. "More to come."

One. Two. Three times—he pushed me over the edge, again and again, until he finally stilled, filling me completely.

I lay beneath him, boneless and dizzy, hoping—quietly, desperately—that this would be the moment I finally conceived. We’d been like this for months—his body never failing me. Damon was strong, virile, and insatiable. If anyone could give me children, it was him.

"Alright," he chuckled breathlessly, pulling away and cleaning up the mess he made with practiced ease. He lifted me gently and placed me back onto the bed, arranging the pillows just right before tucking the sheets around me.

"I’ll clean up. So tomorrow, we can have one last round before your grandpa whisks you off again for work," he teased.

I giggled, eyes already heavy. "Hmm. You better."

I heard the soft rustling of towels and water. He was careful not to wake me, but I stayed half-aware, basking in the warmth of his love. I didn’t worry about anything. Damon said he’d take care of it all—and I believed him.

Hours later, I stirred. The room was quiet, wrapped in the faint scent of lavender oil and damp cotton. I turned toward the softest sounds—the rustle of containers being sealed, the zip of a travel bag. I opened my eyes and saw him there, carefully arranging my toiletries, double-checking every cap, every label.

He was sealing a bag of clothes that needed washing.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Damon never does laundry. He doesn’t know what to do with half of my hair products. And yet, there he was—trying. Fumbling a little, muttering under his breath, but trying all the same.

We don’t have maids. Not anymore. He wonders constantly if he’s doing it right.

And honestly? That’s what makes it perfect.