Chapter 36: Black Card

Chapter 36: Black Card –Damon– His face wasn’t that battered—I could still recognize him. Broad-shouldered, built like a soldier. He’d fought well, no doubt. But Livana’s shadows were stronger. I remembered him now. He was the one speaking with Grandpa and Tyrona’s father years ago. They were planning something dark. A hit, most likely—probably targeting someone in the government. Tyrona’s father always had his sights on the Cabinet. President of the Senate. He made it to the Senate, but never the presidency. So what the hell was he doing here? I turned toward Damien, who was crouched beside my wife. "You look familiar," I told the man. He looked up, his expression tightening as recognition hit him too. "Black Card," he muttered. A slow, dangerous grin spread across my face. Black Card. That meant he was ours. A sworn blade of Blackwell. A dog, bound by oath and blood, in exchange for our protection. Assassin class. Elite. Disposable. I stepped forward and yanked down the collar of his shirt. There it was. The Blackwell dog scar, right above his shoulder blade. My smile widened. "Big word, Damon," Livana murmured from behind me. I turned to her, my voice laced with reverence. "Yes, my beloved." "You can protect him," she said coolly, "but I still need to squeeze a few words out of him." I looked back at the man. He shook his head—loyal to the core. "He’s under oath, my love," I said, approaching her. "This one’s old-fashioned." I knelt before her, removing her hat and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then, I lifted her delicate hand to my cheek, letting her fingers brush my skin. "You can beat me up later," I whispered, kissing her wrist. "Cut off his big toe," she said, her voice like silk wrapping around a dagger. That commanding tone—so soft, so divine—it made my blood burn. The man roared. "BLACK CARD!" he screamed, as if that sacred name could save him. But I was deaf to it. Blind, even. All I could see was her. All I could hear was the echo of her voice in my bones. "Man," Damien sighed. "Just tell them who gave you the order to kill Livana. They won’t take your toe if you do. Damon’s too gone—he won’t even hear you." He threw me a glance. "He’s been hunting the mastermind, too, you know." I didn’t respond. Just smiled and kissed Livana’s other hand. She remained seated, still and poised like a porcelain doll carved by the gods. She gave me a gentle push as she stood and walked toward the man. Three meters away, she paused. Removed her sunglasses. I moved to her side and watched her stare directly at him—blank, but unwavering. "My eyes," she said, voice like frost, "are the rarest in the world. They react to every chemical and every light. They are the reason the Prince of Blackwell fell for me." She turned her head slightly, gaze sharp despite the void in her pupils. "If you don’t speak now, I won’t just kill you. I’ll kill your family. Torturing you means nothing if you’re already numb." "Your aunt," he said hoarsely. "And your cousin." Finally! Though it wasn’t surprising. I folded my arms, watching her as her voice dropped to an arctic whisper. "I don’t believe you." "Why? Because they’re your family? Family—" "No." She cut him off. "I never considered them family. I know they’re capable of this. But they’re not smart enough to plan it. They’re half-blooded simpletons." She slid her sunglasses back on. "Someone with expertise in chemicals planned this. Say her name." She commanded. Yes. Yes. We are the same. She suspects Tyrona too—it thrills me. "We’ll trace it," she said. "And we both know where it will lead. But it’s better if you say it now. Maybe then, I’ll consider sparing your life." She turned slightly toward me. "I wouldn’t want to ruin my husband’s reputation." "Husband?" he spat. "So it’s true. You let a Blackwell be tainted by—" I stepped forward, my eyes blazing. No one—no one—insults my wife in my presence. I wanted to rip his tongue out, but we still needed it to talk. Later. I’ll tear his jaw from his skull when this is over. "One toe on each foot," Livana said, already walking back to her seat. I caught her hand and gently led her there. She sat, regal and serene, and I perched on the arm of her chair, wrapping an arm around her neck like a clingy lover. My love. My goddess. Mine. The masked enforcer twisted the smaller toe first. I heard the snap. Then the blood spattered onto the plastic-lined floor. The man shrieked, writhing, nearly passing out. I laughed. Damien groaned. "Can we be done here? I want to sleep." I ignored him, brushing my fingers against Livana’s hair. "Why?" I teased. "So you can have phone sex with—" I caught myself before saying Laura . I turned to my wife. "Oh right. We can go home now, can’t we, love?" She gave a soft nod. "Pull the other one," she ordered. The bulky man with the tattoo across his left arm stepped up, ready for round two. "Stop!" the assassin finally cried out. "I’ll talk!" We paused. "I received a letter," he panted. "With the money... and that pepper spray..." "Finally," Damien mumbled. –Livana– I could give my husband a blowjob, but I’ve never been one to kneel. Not for anyone. A handjob will suffice. Now that we’ve traced the attack to someone within either the Blackwell or Dela Vega families, all that’s left is confirming whether it was Tyrona. She’s not the only one in that family with access to chemical compounds—they own a large pharmaceutical company, after all—but she is the only one with a motive strong enough to want me dead. I ruined her reputation. I dismantled her relationship with Aunt Casey—or was it Carrie? It didn’t matter. They were all cut from the same fabric. Thin, fraying, and easily torn. "This cabin is beautiful," He said softly, running his fingers through my long hair. "Food!" Damien’s voice called from outside the room, loud and casual as ever. "Are we good now, my love?" Damon asked me, voice low, sultry. He guided my hand down his abdomen, toward his arousal. I pulled away, standing slowly. "I’ve been hard ever since I saw you in sitting on that throne in the middle of that filthy warehouse," He laughed breathlessly, wrapping his arms around my waist, then guiding my chin upward to kiss me. I raised a hand, brushing my fingers along the contours of his face. I never saw him with my eyes for years now, but I could trace him perfectly in my mind. He loved it when I touched him. Even if it was soft. Especially then. "Do me a favor," I said. "Hmm?" he murmured against my skin. "Will you still bring me the mastermind... even if it’s someone from your family?" I expected hesitation. A pause. A flicker of conflict. Instead, he answered instantly. "Of course." His hand slid into my hair, reverent and sure. "Of course, my wife. I’ll kill them for you." I should be more careful with what I ask him. But gods, I hoped it wasn’t someone from his bloodline. If it was a Dela Vega, that would be easier. Damon would tear them apart without a second thought. To him, the Dela Vegas meant nothing. But to the rest of the world? Their fall would make noise. I could live with that. He leaned closer. "Will you ride me tonight? I’ve missed you. It’s been days, my beloved." I tilted my head, lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Kneel." He dropped to his knees without a breath of resistance. I sat at the edge of the bed, lifting my long legs with grace, placing them over him. Since I couldn’t see it exactly, he brought it over his shoulder. His lips found my thighs, trailing gentle kisses upward—each one sending a shiver down my spine. A good one. Yes. This is what I needed. To feel. To take. To be worshipped. To be wet enough for him to make love to me the way only he could. He removed my under garnets . I lay back, letting him kiss me. Damon always lost his mind when I opened my legs for him. It was like watching a beast fall to his knees at the altar—devout, unthinking, ravenous. His mouth found me instantly, and I gasped as his tongue slid between my folds, slow and reverent. He worshipped me there, where I pulsed and ached for him. His hot tongue flicked against my clit, and I sighed, the sound escaping me like silk slipping through fingers. I spread wider, offering more. He growled low, grabbing my hips as if anchoring himself, and began devouring me with such focused hunger I could hear every wet, obscene sound his tongue made against my flesh. The noise was addictive, almost sinful. My back arched involuntarily as the pleasure surged—tight, building, hot. Then he slipped a finger inside me—expert, confident, finding that spot with unerring precision. God. He knew how to touch me like no one ever could. Like I was his religion. He rubbed just right, just hard enough, and I cried out, my orgasm bursting loose like wildfire. I soaked him, and he didn’t flinch. He liked it—no, he craved it. My mess on his face was his proof of victory. "Carry me," I ordered, breathless but commanding. He stood in an instant, undressing me with practiced, eager hands. Then he lifted me easily, cradling me in his arms like something sacred. I wrapped my legs around his waist, arms locked behind his neck. I could feel him—thick, hard, straining beneath me. I adjusted my hips and slid down onto him slowly. My breath caught. Damn. How did he always feel this big? A low groan rumbled in his throat. "Ohhh... Your walls are clenching around me so tight. I can feel how badly you need it." I held onto his arms and began to move, grinding against him, setting that perfect rhythm I knew drove him insane. Up. Down. Tight. Deep. He didn’t wait—his mouth crashed into mine, his tongue invading with a brutal kind of love. It was messy, possessive, desperate. But I loved it. I loved him like this. This was his reward. For being my good wolf.