Chapter 122: When the Gown Turns Red

Chapter 122: When the Gown Turns Red –Damon– She does not play like an angel plucking some fragile harp. No. Livana is far too dangerous for that. She is an angel who belongs to the cello—an angel of death coaxing lullabies out of an instrument made for requiems. Every note she drags from those strings feels less like music and more like scripture—holy, unholy, all of it mine to worship. She thinks she’s writing for her sister. I know it. I hear her devotion bleeding into every chord. She adores her sibling, lives half her life for her. Me? My siblings are smoke. Background noise. I wasted none of myself on them; I wasted all of myself on stalking her, memorizing her shadows, her breath, the way she turned her head when she thought no one was watching. And yet, when she entered my family, she became their darling. They drank her kindness, her patience, as if she were water in a desert. She spoiled them shamelessly—my sister most of all. She gave them the affection I could never muster, and I despise them for it. I despise myself more—for not being enough to stop her from giving pieces of herself away. She should be mine alone. And when she gives herself to me—truly, when flesh meets flesh—it’s not lovemaking. It’s warfare disguised as pleasure. A catastrophe. Every time I enter her, I collapse. I burn. She annihilates me and builds me anew, and I let her because I want no salvation that isn’t carved from her body. She’s the only woman who could ruin me—and I crave the ruin. When she set the cello aside, I stole her panties as easily as I steal her breath when I kiss her. I tucked the silk into my pocket, my secret trophy. While I packed her cello—careful, reverent—I thought of how divine she looked after surrender. When I took her hand and led her downstairs, she pinched me, hissing. "My panties?" she demanded through her teeth. I smiled like the devil signing a contract. "Isn’t it refreshing to wear nothing underneath?" Her cheeks flared, her voice a low growl of frustration. Music to me. "The helicopter’s here," I reminded, surrendering her cello to the butler she trusted. We crossed the lawn, the blades roaring, the air ripping at her dress. My hand was firm against her back, shielding her thighs from exposure. If the wind dared reveal her body to another set of eyes, I’d gouge them out. I’d paint the grass with their blood before I let her dignity be stolen from me. Logan was at the controls. Trusted. Obedient. For now. The wedding waited. Hours passed in the air, her hand in mine, her silence pressed against my skin. It was enough. Then the world below opened, revealing the venue—a secluded Eden still under construction. From above, I saw the bones of a gazebo, the veins of a garden. It was imperfect, but it was ours. The chopper landed. As we stepped out, Laura waved wildly from the veranda, eager and nosy. A long table was prepared, dishes gleaming under the sun. Tomorrow was the wedding, but Livana had insisted on family arriving early. Always careful, always calculating—my wife thinks like a tactician, even when planning a ceremony. I adore her for it. I had the cello unloaded last. Hidden. The instrument was more than wood and string—it was our secret, a weapon wrapped in music. "I can’t wait to take you again," I breathed against her ear, my hand bold against her curves. She pushed me off with that lovely, sharp hiss of hers. "I hate it when you play this game." I kissed her temple, my grin dripping with menace. My hand slid to my pocket where her panties rested—soft proof of my crime. On the veranda, Laura embraced her. I guided Livana to her chair, taking my rightful seat beside her. I will never sit away from her. I am her shadow, her guard, her jailor if I must be. "So," Laura asked eagerly, "what happened? Why did you take so long?" I leaned back, savoring the irritation that was about to poison the air. "I serenaded her. And then," I smirked, "we had our honeymoon over the grand piano." Groans filled the table. Their envy is perfume. "That’s damn good," a voice drawled. Caine. The bastard was back. He always returns like a disease that refuses to die. "You’re alive," I said flatly. My hatred of his vanishing acts burns quietly, like a fuse. "Of course." His grin was a blade, his arm slung over Deanne as she typed on her phone. "Had to surprise my lover first. Why? Did you miss me that much?" I sneered. "Please. I already planned on erasing you from my will." He clutched his chest in mock heartbreak. "Wait—you put me in your will?" "Of course. A monthly allowance for condoms." Deanne’s laughter shattered the air, leaning into him with glee. Caine shook his head, mockery still painted across his face. "Better revise that will. We won’t be using any." Deanne froze. Glared. Her mirth cut off sharp. The women at the table giggled—that included my mother and my sister—oblivious to the venom curling between Caine and me. Their laughter was a pleasant cover, a flimsy curtain over blades drawn in silence. I stretched, deliberately slow, my arm draping across the back of my wife’s chair. My fingers curled against her shoulder, possessive, anchoring her to me. I wanted them all to see. Let them laugh. Let them chatter. Let them pretend this was a family dinner and not a theater where the stage is soaked in secrets. None of them understood—none of them could—that this woman beside me is not just my wife. She is my axis, my territory, my damnation and my salvation. I tightened my hold just slightly, enough for her to feel the pressure, the quiet message: Mine. Caine smirked across the table, but I caught the flicker in his eyes when he noticed the way my thumb traced over her shoulder. He knows. He should know. If any man—friend, enemy, or even blood—ever thinks of touching her, I’ll slice his hands off and feed them to him. I’ll make his ghost learn what regret tastes like. "Damon," my mother laughed lightly, as if I hadn’t just verbally executed Caine a minute ago, "must you always be so dramatic?" "Yes," I said simply, leaning closer to Livana, letting my lips ghost near her temple, "because she deserves an empire built on drama—and a husband who’ll bury anyone who laughs at her crown." Livana stiffened just a little at my words, but I felt the way her breath hitched, how her pulse fluttered beneath her skin. She knows I mean it. She knows I’d do it. And God help anyone who ever doubts me. –Laura– I don’t know what Livana has planned, but tomorrow’s the wedding. My gown’s already fitted, waiting in the bride’s room like destiny on a hanger. Of course, she had it all prepared. That’s my sister—never missing a detail. The gown fit perfectly—too perfectly. I stared at myself in the mirror, secretly wishing I’d gain a kilo overnight just to make it less smug. "Do I look good?" I spun dramatically, my skirt flaring as if the mirror needed extra proof. Livana finally looked up from her phone, that sly smile tugging at her lips. "Girl, that gown was your dream wedding gown. But if you change your mind, don’t worry—I’ve got three backups ready to ambush you." I glanced at the rack. She wasn’t exaggerating. Gowns lined up like royal guards: one for the after-party, one emergency gown, and another already baptized in our photoshoot. I sighed. Typical Livana—building me an empire of dresses while keeping a poker face. And the strangest part? She can see me now. My sister’s blindness, gone. But the world still has to believe the illusion. Our secret. One I can’t even tell Damien. Some secrets are heavy, but this one feels like a knife tucked between my ribs. I moved closer, and she set her phone down, taking my hands. "You are stunning, Laura. If Mom were here, she’d be bawling her eyes out." Tears bit at my eyes. I nodded quickly, smearing them away with my fingers before they betrayed me. "Thank you, sis. For this wedding, for everything. For finding a place so secluded it feels like magic." She smiled softly. "Don’t thank me alone. Damon set up three fake venues to keep the wolves away." Her eyes misted. "I was terrified, Laura. After Deanne was kidnapped... I couldn’t sleep. I thought you’d be next." I squeezed her hands, rolling my eyes in mock drama. "You’re the most powerful woman in the underworld, remember? And Damon—he’s the bloody King. Between the two of you, I’m safer than the Pope." She chuckled, tears slipping free. "You’re right. But I can’t help being overprotective. You were kidnapped once when we were teens... and I never forgot the sound of your scream. But gladly Damon and Damien was there to rescue you." "Because," I said brightly, shaking her hands with a grin, "he loves you too much to let anything happen to me. He knows if I even stub my toe, you’ll mourn like it’s a tragedy. Damon lives for your every expression—even your fury." We laughed together, memories swirling. Damon, the high school menace, blurting outrageous declarations across the cafeteria just to embarrass her. She hated him for it. He thrived on it. And somehow, that nuisance became her husband. Fate has a cruel sense of humor. Later, after dinner, I chose to sleep with Livana. Damien and Damon set up their little camp outside our room, like loyal guard dogs in sleeping bags. Adorable, annoying, and so like them. We pampered ourselves first—face masks, eyedrops, the whole sister ritual. We laughed until our sides hurt, and finally, we collapsed into the queen bed. For once, I thought I’d sleep peacefully. But peace never came. I don’t know when I woke. I don’t know how I got there. One moment I was curled beside my sister, the next—I was standing in the gazebo. Blood. At first, I thought it was paint. Some absurd prank. Then the warmth hit me—the stickiness. My hands trembled as I touched my gown, finding a spreading stain over my stomach. Red. Too much red. And around me—bodies. Everywhere. Limbs twisted. Faces slack. The ground slick with death. I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred, as though the facemask from last night still clung to me. A dream, it had to be. Then I saw them. Damon. Livana. Side by side on the ground. Neither breathing. My scream caught in my throat. My knees buckled. No sound came out—just silence thick with blood. And then—footsteps. Behind me. Slow. Heavy. Coming closer.