I feel like a fucking idiot.
Of course he doesn’t love me.He’s made a point of telling me, over and over, that I’m young. Innocent. Not tough enough or jaded enough or whatever it is that he would need from a woman that he’d keep in a world like the one he lives in.
I never thought Valentina seemed all that jaded, but maybe I don’t know her well enough. Maybe I don’t know anything about any of this, and I’ve been stupid enough to believe I could fit in.
I close the book with more force than necessary and stand up, pacing to the tall windows that overlook the gardens. I see Valentina walking through the rose beds, saying something to the gardener as he follows her down the path. She looks peaceful, content, like a woman who knows exactly where she belongs.
I’ve never been really jealous of anyone until now. I wish I knew where I belonged. I never have, and now I don’t know if I ever will. I feel like when I leave, a part of me will always be stuck here, with Damian.
I jump when I hear his footsteps. Before he can pass by the library, I drop the book, hurrying out into the hall. I want to see him—to saysomethingto him, even though I don’t know what will come out of my mouth yet. Not to beg him to let me stay… but something. Something to make him realize what he’s done to me, even if he didn’t mean to.
He looks more disheveled than usual, his hair messy as if he’s been running his hands through it, dark circles under his eyes. He stops, looking at me warily, and I bite my lip.
“Damian.”
“Sienna.” He says my name carefully, and I wish he wouldn’t, not like that. I want to hear him whisper it, moan it, bite it out angrily, but not this… not that calm, cold way of saying it that makes it seem like we’re strangers.
It’s like all his walls are up, and I don’t know if I want to bring them down again, but I… I don’t want to leave things like this, either.
“Where are you going?” I ask as lightly as I can, and he frowns.
“The Russos,” he says flatly. “I don’t want to tell you more than that. You don’t need to know.”
Something sharp jabs in my chest. “Because I’m atemporarywife?”
He flinches. “No. Because I don’t want you to know things that could put you in danger.”
I swallow hard. “Damian, you don’t have to protect me. I mean, you do from the Russos, yes, but the rest of this, the everyday…”
“This isn’t everyday,” he says tightly. “And it’s not that simple, Sienna. Nothing about the situation is simple. And when I said?—”
“What?” Anger flares sharply in my chest, the hurt rushing back. I hadn’t planned to argue with him, but looking at him, cool and collected, my chest aches as if I’ve been stabbed. “That this is temporary? That it means nothing? That seems pretty simple to me, Damian. It seemed pretty simple when you were fucking me. It seemed pretty simple when you were telling me how much you wanted me, how perfect I felt. But the moment I showed you that I cared about you—really cared—you couldn't get away fast enough."
He flinches like I've slapped him. "You don't understand?—"
"Then explain it to me." I take a step closer, trying not to breathe him in, to smell his cologne and sweat and remember how it felt to have his scent streaked across my skin. "Tell me why you're so determined to push me away."
For a moment, I think he's going to turn around and leave, refuse to answer me. But then his shoulders slump slightly, and he looks at me with something that might be defeat.
"Because I'm not good enough for you," he says quietly. "Because you deserve better than a man who kills people for a living."
I feel like all the air has been sucked out of me, like I can’t breathe for a second. My heart aches for myself… but also for him, hearing that. Hearing him say that he’s not good enough, when Iknowthat he is.
Everything he’s done for me proves it, everything he’s tried to be.
“You’re wrong,” I say softly. “And that's not your decision to make."
"Isn't it?" His voice gets harder, more like the man who saved me from that warehouse. “I said I’d protect you, Sienna. That includes from myself. From a life that you’d regret, eventually. You’ve seen me kill people. Kill the men who had you in front of that camera that first night. Men in that warehouse. And I’ve done worse. I’ve tortured men. Killed more than I can count, now. I’ve hurt them in ways I could never begin to tell you. And I’ve never felt guilt or shame or regret for any of it.”
I know he expects me to be horrified, disgusted. Instead, all I feel is a fierce gratitude that I have a man like this to protect me. That I never have to fear that he’ll falter or fail. That he’d never let anyone who laid a finger on me live.
"Good," I tell him bluntly, meeting his gaze, and his eyes widen in surprise.
"Good?"
"Good," I repeat, stepping even closer. "I'm glad you killed them. I'm glad you felt satisfaction. Those men would have hurt me, would have used me, would have sold me to the highest bidder. And you stopped them. You protected me."
"You don't know what you're saying."
