That evening, when Damian came home, I nearly lost control. I wanted to lunge at him, tear him apart.
I wanted to grab him by the collar and demand answers. Why? Why would you deceive me like this?
Was it really all because I'd handed Edna a glass of fruit wine?
Four years. Four years of agony—grief bleeding into worry, worry hardening into resignation. I'd made peace with spending the rest of my life by his side in celibacy. And all of it had been a joke.
I watched Damian stroll into the living room as if nothing in the world weighed on him. He pulled me into his arms and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
"Babe, that new technique you learned tonight—why don't we try it? Maybe it'll work this time."
My gaze locked onto his face, searching for even a flicker of guilt, a crack in the composure.
In the end, I clenched my jaw and nodded.
"Fine."
Later that night, Damian showered and stretched out on the bed, bare. I'd changed into what he requested—a scrap of fabric that belonged in a nightclub, not a bedroom.
He arched a brow and gestured for me to get on my hands and knees.
A cold smile tugged at my lips. I studied his expression, followed the line of his gaze—and finally saw it.