Chapter 17: Worship and War

Words : 1242 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 17 - Worship and War –Damon– Watching the creamy soup drip from her lips made my throat tighten. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing my wife eat—composed, graceful, precise. Blind, yes. But she never faltered. She didn't need help. She never has. "Are you staring at me?" she asked, her eyes unfocused yet perfectly aligned with mine across the table. "Can't I?" I leaned back, smiling like a lovesick fool. This was a scene I'd replayed a thousand times since high school—me, hopelessly in love with her. I would've kissed the ground she walked on. Hell, I did—figuratively, anyway. Though, back then, the fantasies weren't as innocent. Most ended with her naked, writhing under me. That accidental kiss on my 18th birthday? Best damn birthday gift I ever got. I celebrated for a week straight. Brought her flowers—she tossed them without hesitation. So I started making paper flowers. Paper rings. I knelt in front of her like a madman after that kiss. She beat me black and blue. I didn't care. Her fists were worth it. "Remember when I first proposed to you?" "I don't," she replied, cold as ice. "I feel like we're in the wrong world, Damien," Laura muttered from the side, as if the room wasn't soaked in my delusion. "Move down. Let's not ruin his fantasy." "I agree," Damien added under his breath as they got up to leave with their plates. I shot them both a glare. Those two—perfectly built for each other, perfectly in denial. Always hovering around, never screwing, but just so ready to. "I'm still eating. Do not move," Livana snapped, voice firm. I grinned. That tone—she'd use that on our kids, probably. She'd be a strict mother. Maybe even cruel. I'd love it. I've always wanted her dominant side. Still, she always softened when we made love. Maybe it's because she couldn't see me. Maybe that made it easier for her to pretend she didn't care. She wiped her lips after clearing her plate and stood. "Thank you, Chef, for the food." I glanced at Wally—the chef who nearly got himself killed the first time we met. I still haven't forgiven him. But I haven't touched him either. Livana likes his cooking, and that alone spared him. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Mrs. Blackwell," Wally said politely. "I don't refer to myself that way. Just call me Madam ." "Yes, Madam." I frowned. My brow twitched. Laura stifled a laugh, probably catching my reaction to Livana rejecting my last name. I stood and followed as she walked off. Again, the door shut in my face. I smirked and tilted my head. "Liva, I'm going to the club tonight. Want to come?" "No," she said, voice like a blade. I let out a long breath. "Alright," I said, though I stayed rooted in place, trying to catch the sounds beyond the door. Something was off. She was hiding something. And I hated not knowing what. "Leave me, Damon. Just leave me." "Hmm. I don't think I can." I sighed. She was so damn stubborn. "But fine. I'll go with Damien to the club." She didn't answer. I clenched my jaw. I hated her silence more than her sharp words. Maybe if I came home smelling like someone else's perfume, she'd snap. She'd beat the shit out of me. God, I wanted that. I dressed in the room she'd assigned me—like some guest. Damien looked annoyed when I dragged him out, but I didn't care. "Tsk. Let's go," I said, ignoring Laura's sharp glare. "Why the club?" she asked, arms crossed. "Well, your sister locked me out. I figured I might as well enjoy myself." She gave me that Carrighton glare—cold and commanding, just like Livana. I yanked Damien along and headed for the car waiting outside. The club was loud, but still early. The kind of noise that doesn't drown out your thoughts yet, just irritates them. And then I saw him. Richard Knox. Pathetic. Slouched over a whiskey glass, drowning in it. Vulnerable. Perfect. I took a seat across from him. He looked up like I'd spat in his drink. Good. Let him look. "So. I heard the drama," I said, grinning as I studied his face—strained, insecure, drunk. "Leave me alone, Blackwell." I laughed, sitting back. "You tried to stick your pathetic little—what do you call it—between the cousins?" His mouth twitched. Good. Let that pride crack. "But I'm sure you never got near Livana." I chuckled darkly. "That woman would chew you alive." "What the hell does that mean?" he snapped, standing abruptly. "You're just not her type." I shrugged. "She likes her men worshipping her. Like me. Face buried between her legs, praying." Richard flared like a lit match. "You... you touched her?" "More than touched," I said softly. "I live there." He roared and lunged. Grabbed my collar, breathing fire. "So you think you're worthy? You're just a dirty Blackwell—!" I didn't stop smiling. I liked this version of him—broken, blind with rage. Weak. "For the record," I whispered, "Carrie said you finished too fast." His pupils blew wide. Then he hit me. Sloppy. Weak. I let him swing twice before I returned a punch that dropped him to the floor. "Is he dead?" Damien hissed. "Damn it, Damon! We can't have a corpse in your club!" "He's sleeping," I said, waving over the bouncers. "Get rid of him." I headed to the VIP lounge. The usual idiots were there, making out with some model-type girl. She stood to greet me. I raised my hand to stop her. "What? Playing the loyal husband now?" Aaron teased. I just smirked and dropped into the seat. "I want to go home," Damien muttered. "I'm still hungover." He sat across from me anyway. "Why are you three passing around one girl like you're broke?" I asked, motioning for water. "Get me a mojito." They laughed. "She's hot, alright?" Aaron defended, cupping her chest like a trophy. Tempting. But not her. No one touched me the way Livana did—no one ever would. "Oh, shit. Twelve o'clock. Your fiancée," Ike said. I didn't turn. "Damon, there you are." Tyrona slid into the seat beside me and kissed my cheek. I wiped it away, irritated. "What do you want, Tyrona?" "We had an agreement," she said, glaring at the girl on Jordan's lap. Then she turned to me, lifting my chin. "The wedding's happening this year." I scoffed and shoved her hand away. "You're not delaying it again," she hissed, eyes narrowing. "Or I'll kill that mistress of yours." I grabbed her jaw, squeezing until her face puckered. I leaned in close. "Try it. And you'll lose your hands before you touch a single strand on her head." My friends fell silent. Damien stepped in, pulling her away before I snapped her neck. She scoffed again. "So it's true. You're hiding that white bitch like some secret." I leaned back, cool as ever, letting her glare all she wanted. She could seethe. But Livana was mine. And no one—not even a desperate fiancée or a jealous cousin—would touch her.

Chapter 17: Worship and War

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