Chapter 104: Love? Maybe. Chaos? Definitely.

Chapter 104: Love? Maybe. Chaos? Definitely. –Deanne– Pins and needles pricked at my skull. I turned slowly to my left, my whole body aching like I’d been hit by a truck. Probably because I did beat someone up last night? I groaned and snuggled deeper into the pillows— Except they weren’t pillows. They were warm. Human. I jolted upright, head spinning. My eyes locked onto the naked man next to me, covered in bruises and hugging his chest like he’d just survived a war—or worse. "What the hell are you doing here?" I hissed, exhaling sharply. "Girl, you’re the one who forced yourself on me." I glanced down at myself. Fully clothed. No soreness. No signs of... trauma. I reached for my head, wincing. Caine handed me a bottle of water, which I gratefully chugged. And that’s when I noticed it—his honey-toned, muscular body, riddled with red and purple bruises. Bite marks on his arms. His chest looked like a crime scene. "Wait," I mumbled, squinting. "Did you fuck someone in this room?" He gave me a look. That ’Are you serious?’ look. I hate that face. "You really don’t remember? We were flirting last night~~" "Wait~~" I raised a hand, stumbling to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face before stepping back out, gesturing for him to continue. "Start from the bar. What happened?" I said as I wiped my face. "You drank. A lot." he said, shaking his head. "It was a nightmare. Some guy harassed you, and of course I had to step in. Total chaos at the club." "Club?" I blinked. "Yeah. Blue and red lights. Loud music. The whole scene." "Oh." I nodded and grabbed another water bottle from the mini fridge. "I nearly killed the guy. You stopped me. Then you kicked his balls. And the undercover agents following us? They had to intervene. We got thrown out, and you kept drinking. Then I brought you here and... we started flirting. Then kissing~~" "What?" I choked and spit out the water. "That’s gross," he muttered. I wiped my mouth with a tissue from the fridge top and cleaned the mess on the floor. "We made out. But I swear, I kept my hands up the whole time. Girl, you were dominant. You teased me, ripped my shirt—" he gestured to the tattered fabric on the bed, "—bit me, kissed me... you were like a lioness." He rubbed his head. "And for the record, Deanne, I was sober." "I’m sorry," I said flatly. "Sorry?" He stood up. "You seduced me. Got me all riled up. Then passed out like a light!" "I didn’t puke, did I?" "Nope. Praise the heavens, I am still blessed." "Perfect." I nodded. "My head is killing me. Thanks for staying with me." I turned back toward the bathroom. "That’s it?" he snapped. "You’re just gonna walk away? You should take responsibility for me! Look at me!" I looked. Head to toe. He looked fine. Not dying. "Need concealer?" I asked. He stared at me—wide-eyed, stunned. Like I’d slapped him with a fish. "You are unbelievable. After taking advantage of me, that’s all you have to say?" He exhaled like he was trying not to scream. "What? You want me to fuck you?" I asked, deadpan. He crossed his arms. His annoyingly perfect chest, pectorals, biceps—damn it. The man was sculpted. "Deanne, you should marry me after that. You forced yourself on me, you know~~" "Look. I was fully clothed. You were the sober one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare breakfast and I’d appreciate five minutes of peace." I closed the door behind me and ran a warm bath. Let the water soothe the migraine and erase last night’s embarrassment. Then—knock knock. "By the way," Caine called, "Alejandro’s already dead." I sighed. That bastard. I couldn’t care less. But this? This was going to make everything a whole lot messier. –Livana– I delicately sipped my tea, letting the subtle bitterness bloom across my tongue as warmth pooled in my chest. The faint clinking of kitchenware danced behind me—my husband, humming a tune off-key while preparing breakfast. The scent of sizzling bacon and buttery toast wafted through the air, mingling with the soft perfume I wore to bed. Morning indulgence. Caine emerged from Deanne’s bedroom, and I didn’t need my eyes to know he was a walking disaster. His footsteps were sluggish, and from the heat prickling at my cheeks, I could tell he was shirtless—or rather, shirtless under that high-neck sweater he threw on in a panic. My sunglasses hid the fact that I was clearly eyeing the constellation of hickeys across his collarbone. He looked... disoriented. Slightly embarrassed. Possibly in love. Poor soul. "Here’s your creamy scrambled eggs with bacon and toast," Damon announced proudly as he placed the plate in front of me. The aroma hit me first—eggs cooked just the way I liked them: soft, creamy, lightly peppered. Toast warm and crisp. Bacon still crackling slightly from the pan. "Thank you, Damon." "Love. Call me ’Love.’ Like L-O-V-E. Got it?" "Damon," I said with a light shrug as I raised my fork. The sound of his offended gasp behind me was music to my ears. From the hallway, Grandpa’s door creaked open. "Grandpa, how do you like your eggs?" Damon asked cheerfully, still recovering from my emotional betrayal. "Make me an eggs benedict," Grandpa Reagan replied coolly as he pulled out the chair across from me and sat down with the weight of a man who’d lived too many lives. "I can’t make that," Damon muttered. "Where’s Deanne? Useless. You’re absolutely useless, Damon." From the corner of my eye, I saw Damon clutch his chest like Grandpa had mortally wounded him. "Wow. Savage, Gramps." "Just give me whatever Livana’s having," Grandpa sighed in surrender. Truth was, Damon had already prepared the second plate before Grandpa even asked. He slid it toward him without a word but made sure to mutter under his breath, "For the record, I know how to fry eggs. And I make my wife’s favorite scrambled eggs." Grandpa only gave a dismissive hum and began eating with precise, peaceful bites—completely ignoring the drama he’d incited. That was when Caine slumped into a chair, his hair a tragic mess, his turtleneck clinging too tightly around his marked-up throat. If shame had a uniform, he wore it well. "Grandpa," Caine began, voice strained. "I’ve been taken advantage of last night." "Get used to it," Grandpa said without missing a beat. I nearly choked on my tea, holding back a laugh as Caine blinked, stunned by the lack of sympathy. "Did you at least use protection?" Grandpa asked, looking mildly concerned. Caine turned pale. "Grandpa, that didn’t happen," he replied, jaw tight. "I was violated in a different way." "Oh," Grandpa said, entirely unfazed, as if that made it somehow better. Either he was willfully ignoring Deanne’s chaotic nature... or he had accepted it as a force of nature, like gravity or hurricanes. I couldn’t help it—I giggled again. Subtle, under my breath, but clear enough. Damon sat beside me finally, gently adding more bacon to my plate. He picked up a fork and fed me a bite himself, his fingers brushing my lips in a way that made my skin tingle. I let him. Spoiled, pampered—what else were husbands for? Meanwhile, Caine was still on his soapbox, pleading his wounded honor. "Grandpa, I am a single man. Deanne just took advantage of me. She should take responsibility, at least." Grandpa sighed, that bone-deep kind of sigh reserved for men who’ve seen far too much of life and far too little sense. "Caine, you need to understand... Deanne will not take responsibility for you. She doesn’t need you." The words landed with surgical precision. I almost heard Caine’s soul crack in half. He sat there, silent, his pride bruised worse than his neck. Damon reached over and patted his shoulder—awkwardly—before reaching for my hand again like I was the only sanity in this whole house. Honestly, he wasn’t wrong. We were still finishing our breakfast when Deanne emerged from her bedroom with all the elegance of a half-asleep sloth. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, and she wore her usual oversized clothes—baggy sweatpants and a hoodie three sizes too big. A white towel was wrapped haphazardly around her damp hair like a crown of sleepy defiance. Without saying a word, she shuffled to the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, took a slow sip, and sighed like a soul resurrected. "This is good," she mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep. She plopped down on the chair across from Caine and, without hesitation, reached for his untouched plate. "If you’re not eating, I’ll have it," she said simply, already stealing his fork like it was rightfully hers. Caine hadn’t touched a single thing. He was still sulking in complete silence, arms crossed like a child denied dessert. Grandpa lowered the edge of his newspaper, not even looking at her. "Dear, how was the party last night?" "Chaotic. Fun." Deanne replied blandly, as if describing the weather. Caine stood abruptly, clearly agitated, probably hoping for attention. It made him look boyish, almost dramatic. Beside me, my husband snickered and leaned over to kiss my cheek, his lips lingering just a second longer than necessary. "They’re hilarious," he murmured. I nudged him lightly with my elbow, and he cleared his throat like a scolded boy before turning toward Deanne. "D," he said seriously, "I think you need to talk to Caine. His parents are really strict. They can’t see him walking around with hickeys." "Oh?" Deanne blinked, raising an eyebrow. She seemed surprised—or maybe just expertly pretending to be. "Should I kneel... with flowers and a ring? Mm. No thanks," she replied with a smirk, taking another bite of Caine’s bacon. I couldn’t help it. I laughed aloud. Even Grandpa chuckled behind his paper. "You are unbelievable, Deanne," he said, shaking his head. "A proper playgirl." Deanne lifted her mug in mock salute. "Thank you, Grandpa. I will do my best." And Caine? Still speechless. Still wounded. Still possibly in love.