My thumb finds the scar that splits her top and bottom lip, tracing the faint line of it. Rage, the kind of pure, white-hot vacuum that turns a man into a savage, surges through my veins. The thought of a man laying his hands on her in a way that wasn't for her pleasure makes me want to burn the world down. The motherfucker better hope he’s actually rotting in a grave, because if I ever get my hands on him, I’m going to take a slow, surgical pleasure in opening him up and seeing what color his insides are.
I lean forward, kissing her with a reverence that borders on worship, sliding my tongue along those silvered lines as if I could lick the history right off her skin. Some people see scars and see a victim. They’re fucking wrong. They’re badges of honor on a warrior who walked through the fire and came out on the other side holding the torch.
"Keep going," I order softly.
“Damon rarely let me out of his sight. People thought he was just possessive, but it went deeper than that. He tried toownme. Not the way your club claims women, either. That's protection. That's care underneath all the rough edges. He did it because he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else having pieces of me that he didn’t have.”
Marigold draws her bottom lip between her teeth, her breath hitching as tears finally well up. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen this woman break. It’s a physical kick to my gut. That steamrolling rage in my chest continues to build, a silent promise of violence. A lone tear tracks down her cheek, and I lean in to kiss it away. Her quiet, broken sob tears through my soul like a serrated blade.
“Right here, baby. Not going to let anyone else hurt you. You’re mine now and I protect what’s mine.”
She scowls at me with wet eyes and I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep a straight face. My feral little woman, leaking tears and glaring at me like I've personally offended her.
“I can protect myself,thank you.”
“I know,” I soothe. “But then who would protect me?”
The way she moves through sad to ferocious to lit-up in about four seconds flat should probably alarm me. It's the most endearing thing I've ever witnessed.
She beams at me, her mood pivoting on a dime. “You’re right. I can’t possibly protect us both at the same time.” She pats my cheek like I'm a golden retriever who's done something mildly impressive. "Maybe you are a little smart."
“As opposed to…a little dumb?” I ask, amused as fuck despite the seriousness of our conversation.
"Yes."
I genuinely cannot tell if I'm being insulted or complimented and I don't think she sees a difference.
This goddamn woman.
“Ready to continue now?” I ask softly, bringing us back to the ledge.
Marigold pokes out her bottom lip, a stubborn, childish gesture that hides a world of pain. “No.”
“That’s okay. We can talk about it some other time.”
She lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “Fine. No need to beg. I’ll tell you.”
I scrub a hand over my face, wiping away the smile she keeps forcing out of me. “Appreciate the mercy.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then she surprises the hell out of me. She rises up, taking my dick in her hand and guiding it back home as she slides onto it. I let out a low, ragged groan, my fingers tightening on her hips, but I don’t move. The way she exhales and just collapses against my chest tells me everything I need to know. She’s not looking for a fuck. She’s looking for an anchor. She’s looking for somewhere safe to put herself while she says the rest of it.
“Better,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the pulse point in my neck before pulling back to look at me. Her lip trembles, but her eyes are steel. “Now, where was I? Right. It didn’t take me long to understand there was no humanity left inside Damon. Honestly, I don’t believe there ever was any.”
“Marigold, who exactly is Damon?”
"You know I'm from Greece. My family wasn't famous, but they had standing in the art world. They owned one of the more prestigious galleries." Something dims behind her eyes. “Anemoria. It’s fitting, really. The name refers to a place that exists only in memory or dreams. That’s all it is now.”
“What happened?”
“Damon did.” She tries to crawl closer, seeking more of my heat, so I tighten my hold and give her a shallow, rhythmic tilt of my hips. She hums, a tiny sound of gratitude, and nods. “Mamaand Papa picked up on the abuse early. They begged me to leave him. But it wasn’t that easy. Damon was just... too powerful.”
“Who is he, little shadow?” I repeat, the hair on the back of my neck starting to stand up.
“Bad. He’s a bad, bad man.Damon Katzis,” she whispers. She says it like a prayer to a devil, like saying it too loud will summon him right into the red light of this room.
The name ricochets through my mind, bouncing off old intel and club briefings until it finally clicks into place. My blood turns to slush.
