"I'll buy you whatever you need." His voice is dismissive, like my request is an inconvenience he doesn't have time for. "Clothes, toiletries, whatever. We need to get home. Back to Konstantin’s estate. We don’t have time for?—”
"No." The word comes out sharply, undeniably a demand, and I see surprise flicker across his features. "I need to go to my apartment. There are things there that I can't replace."
His jaw tightens. "It's not safe. The longer we're out in the open, especially this late at night, the more risk?—"
"I don't care about the risk." I cross my arms, trying to project a confidence I don't feel. "You said you'd protect me. So protect me while I get what I need."
We stare at each other for a long moment, and I can see the frustration building in his expression. He's used to people obeying him without question—that much is obvious. But I'm not backing down on this. I can't.
“Sienna—” There’s a warning in his voice, but I hold his gaze, glaring at him. I’m not going to budge on this, and I think he can see it.
"Fine," he says finally, the word clipped. "But we make it quick."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
He doesn't respond, just places his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the church doors. His touch burns through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I have to resist the urge to pull away from him. I need to get used to this, I realize. To his hands on me, to hispresence beside me. Because, like it or not, this man is my husband now.
What is he going to want from me? Expect from me?The thought terrifies me, but I have to keep it together. I’ve made it this far—I can’t fall apart now.
The drive to my apartment is tense and silent. Damian keeps checking the rearview mirror, his body coiled with tension as he scans for threats I can't see. Every few blocks, he takes an unexpected turn, doubling back or changing direction in ways that make no sense to me but clearly serve some purpose in his mind. My pulse beats faster, the minutes suddenly impossibly precious to me. “I thought you said we needed to hurry,” I say tartly, after the third odd turn that doesn’t make sense based on the directions I gave him, and Damian shoots me a dark look.
“You said you wanted to go home. I’m taking you home.Safely.” His voice has a bite to it, and I can tell he’s aggravated with me. I purse my lips, my arms crossed stubbornly over my chest. I don’t care. We can have our first fight as husband and wife if he wants, but Ineedto go back to my apartment before we go… wherever it is that he’s taking me.
We pull into my neighborhood, and I wince. I’ve seen it in the pre-dawn hours plenty of times—most nights, honestly—and it always looks worse, somehow, this time of night. It’s shabby at the best of times, but there’s something about this particular hour, in the pre-dawn lighting, that makes it look especially run-down.
The streetlights are sparse, and half of them are burned out. Trash litters the sidewalks, and the few people who are out at this hour look like they're up to no good. I try not to be embarrassed about where I live—it’s what I can afford, and it’s better than where some of the other girls live, but seeing it through Damian’s eyes, I feel my cheeks color. He called his home, Konstantin’s home, anestate. I can only imagine how different it must be, what he must be thinking of this right now. What he’ll think of me after he sees…
He pulls into the parking lot of my building, and I shove the thought out of my head. What Damian thinks of my living situation isthe least of my problems right now, and anyway, it’s not going to be my home much longer. I feel a strange pang in my chest at the thought. I can’t count how many times I’ve thought that I hated this apartment, wished I could move, daydreamed of all the places I wished I could afford. But still… I worked hard to be able to live here, shitty as it is. This is the placeIpay for, thatIwork my ass off for. It means more to me than I realized.
Damian parks, glancing over at me, and then back at the building. The paint on the outside is peeling, and there are security bars on the windows of the bottom three floors. The parking lot is cracked and potholed, with weeds growing through the asphalt. It's exactly the kind of place someone like him would never set foot in under normal circumstances, except maybe to shake someone down. He certainly wouldn’t date or marry someone from a place like this. I wonder if he regrets it now.
I shove the thought out of my head. I didn’t ask him to marry me. If that’s how he feels, then it’s his problem, not mine.
"I'll just be a few minutes," I say, reaching for the door handle.
His hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist before I can move. "I'm coming with you."
"That's not necessary?—"
"It wasn't a request." His grip isn't painful, but it's firm enough to make his point clear. "We go together, or we don't go at all."
I want to argue, but the set of his jaw tells me it would be pointless. And honestly, part of me is relieved, even though I’m dreading his reaction once we go into my apartment. The building feels different now, more threatening. Every shadow could be hiding someone waiting for me, every sound could signal danger approaching. I know he’s right, that it’s not safe for me to go up alone, and panic rushes through me. Ineedto get up to my apartment.
"Fine.” I jerk my wrist out of his grasp. “We need to hurry, though.”
Damian gives me a look, shaking his head before getting out of the car and moving around to my side with that predatory grace I noticed earlier. Everything about him screams danger, from the wayhe carries himself to the way his eyes never stop moving, cataloging threats and escape routes. I wonder what it would be like to go through life that way, always watching, always ready for violence.
Is that how I’m going to feel now? Always watching shadows, always looking over my shoulder?Will I ever feel safe again? The thought feels heavy. For all that I live in a place like this and I worked at a questionable strip club, I’ve always felt like I was safe enough, as long as I paid attention and had a decent amount of street smarts. This feels like a different kind of danger than watching out for muggers and drug dealers. This feels real, immediate. Someone wants me dead.
I don’t know how to live with that feeling. How to accept it. I can’t even completely wrap my head around it.
The building's front door is propped open with a brick—the lock has been broken for months, and the landlord hasn't bothered to fix it. Damian's expression darkens as we step into the lobby, taking in the water-stained ceiling and the flickering fluorescent lights. The elevator is out of order, as usual, so we head for the stairs.
"What floor?" he asks.
"Third." I’m already walking ahead of him, urgency tingling down my spine. Damian positions himself behind me, following me up the stairs, and I hear a softclick. I spin around to see that he has his gun out, held at his side, his eyes scanning every corner of the stairwell, up and down as we ascend.
The stairwell smells like cigarettes and disinfectant, and our footsteps echo off the concrete walls. I can feel his presence behind me, solid and intimidating, and I find myself walking faster than usual. I want to get out of here. I want to getusout of here.
