Chapter 63: The Blood Line

Chapter 63: The Blood Line –Laura– I don’t know why they sent out bodyguards. And I had no clue where Logan was. All I knew was—I felt in heat. Again. Always in heat around Damien. Like a damn cat in mating season. I’d just finished my work. The pizza had arrived over an hour ago, but my appetite was... elsewhere. I walked over to my boyfriend, who was half-lost in his computer screen, and pushed his swivel chair. "Woah!" he yelped, jerking upright as I leaned in, hands aimed south. "Hey, stop that! That’s harassment, madam. I don’t care if you’re the Vice-Chairman—woman, you can’t just assault me like that!" I scowled, arms crossed. "Seriously?" I stared at him. "You’re really going to call me a harasser?" A sharp knock at the door cut our moment. Damien clutched his chest with a gasp like some Victorian virgin. I raised a fist, resisting the urge to actually punch his melodramatic ass. I checked the hallway through the glass panel, then tapped my ID and opened the door wide for Logan. "Let’s go," he said flatly. "But the pizza?" I pointed to the box. "We haven’t finished it." "Fine," Logan muttered, stepping inside. He grabbed a slice and sat down like he owned the place, pointing at the fridge with a mouthful. "What do you need?" I asked. "That grape juice looks good." "Get it yourself," Damien barked, voice low and commanding. My stomach flipped. God, that tone? He could command a whole army or... me. Preferably me. Logan, unbothered, stood and fetched the juice. I strutted over to Damien, and this time, he pulled me into his lap with zero resistance. I smirked—possessive bastard. "Let’s go," Logan snapped again, standing now. "Chill," I told him. "Let me grab my things, alright? Enjoy the damn pizza." I packed the important documents into my bag alongside my laptop. Damien did the same, sweeping our workspace clean like some obedient intern. Clay go. We moved in sync, partners in crime. Logan gave us the classic glare. I smirked and shoved the pizza box into his arms. "Carry that." He obeyed—grumbling, but still. Damien held my bag and placed a protective hand on my waist as we walked to the elevator. Logan followed, still munching, like this was just another Tuesday. "So, where’s my sister?" I asked casually. "Honeymoon villa," Logan replied like it was obvious. "And she sent you? Why?" He stared at me for a beat. "Not here. Not now." He rolled his eyes. "Didn’t she tell you to stay home?" "I only come to the office twice a week," I muttered. Damien pulled me tighter. I glared at him, but it didn’t stop him from keeping his hand on my waist like I’d get snatched any minute. "Is she okay?" I asked, more serious now. "Yeah, she’s—" Logan stopped, chewing. "She’s what?" I pressed. "This pizza is good," he mumbled, ignoring me. I narrowed my eyes. He was pushing it. We got to the parking lot. Instead of heading to my gorgeous car, Logan led us to some ugly, dented, undercover-looking vehicle. I didn’t judge—this was clearly part of the plan. I climbed in, ready to roast him for the exterior, only to pause. Perfect. Black leather. Smooth finish. And clean. Damien sat beside me, draped his coat over my lap, and placed a warm, steady hand on my knee. On my knee. My hormones were about to riot. He was so protective it was turning me on. I grinned to myself. Oh, I was tying him up tonight. No arguments. When we got home, I didn’t waste time. I grabbed Damien by the wrist. "No, please!" he said, dramatically pretending to resist. "Don’t hurt me!" "Shut up!" I growled, pushing him into the bedroom. He staggered back like I was about to mug him. "Damn it, Damien." I slammed the door shut behind us. Off came my clothes—except for the red lace lingerie and heels. I stood before him, unapologetically sexy. He clutched his chest like I was Medusa. But I reached for him anyway. He yelped—theatrics—but helped me undress him like the shameless deviant he was. I didn’t waste time. My hand stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching him lose composure. He raised both hands, surrendering. "Goddamn it, Laura..." I didn’t even care. I was soaked, hot, desperate. Like I’d chugged liquid fire. I climbed onto him, lowering myself inch by inch. He growled, grabbing my hips, thrusting upward with all that frustration. "Laura—what in the freaking hell—" he gasped as I ground my hips. His grip tightened on my ass. It felt amazing—overwhelming, even. I spasmed hard, unexpectedly, coming faster than planned. But we weren’t done. Oh no. I wanted more. When we finally finished—sweaty, breathless, totally ruined—I reached for a fake cigarette and pretended to light it. Damien was slouched against the headboard, gripping the sheet over his chest like a scandalized maiden. We stared at each other. Then we burst into laughter. "This roleplay is next-level," I panted. Damien crawled toward me and kissed my cheek, chuckling. "It drives me insane when you ride me after I’ve come." I grinned. "Yeah? Better brace yourself." I headed to the bathroom, washed up, and got dressed. Damien cleaned up, yawning, folding clothes like the househusband he denied being. Downstairs, Logan was talking to our head of security. He turned when he saw me and gestured upstairs with a cocked brow. "To your office?" I nodded. Once we were inside, he led me to the sofa and handed over a thick stack of documents. "The Madrigals have formed an alliance with Dela Vega," he said calmly. "They went after your sister in her hotel suite with her husband. Livana told me to secure you." "Oh," I breathed, stunned. "Whoever Dela Vega partnered with... they want to wipe out your mother’s bloodline." My stomach dropped. "What are you talking about?" "There’s something in the company. Something your aunt and dad are obsessed with," he said lowly. "I think Livana’s figured it out." "It’s not... like an underground black market thing, right?" He shook his head. "No. Something bigger." "Huh." "Your mother was a genius," he added. Then, eyes narrowed, he asked, "So... does this mean you’re pregnant?" I blinked. "What?" "You’ve been screwing a Blackwell bastard. And I know your sister wants you pregnant. She planned this." "Oh, we planned it," I snapped, standing. "My sister and I worked everything out. Don’t interfere." He creased his brows. "So what if I am pregnant?" He backed off. "I don’t know." I exhaled and flipped through the documents. My mom’s contracts—with the Pentagon? What the actual hell? This wasn’t just dangerous. This was nation-level chaos. How the hell did my mother get involved with them? –Livana– The bark of the dog caught my attention. Low. Sharp. Focused. I stepped back instinctively when I felt its damp nose press gently against my leg. "Livy, meet Agent Choco Fudge," my husband said, clearly amused with himself. "What?" I asked, frowning. "Yeah, you heard it right. Choco Fudge." "Fuck..." I muttered, brows furrowing. "Did you name the dog?" He laughed—boyish, light. Unbothered. "I got you there. But his name is Choco. And anyway, I got you a dog that’ll help you around." He reached for my hand, placing the leash in my palm. I stared down at his hand. He still thinks I’m blind. But I can see—somewhat. My vision is blurred, shapes haloed in light, but it’s clearer now than it’s ever been. I took the leash. "He knows the basics," Damon added, his voice proud. I didn’t ask him to get me a dog, but I was surprised—touched, even—that he had prepared something this personal. I offered the dog a treat. Then I lowered myself to the grass, feeling the sun hit my skin, and ran my fingers along his silky fur. "Choco," I whispered. "It’s a cute name." "Thank you, my love." I felt his kiss on the crown of my head. Warm. Gentle. "Maybe I’ll get my reward," he added, voice teasing. "It’s been many days now." Yes. It had. I’d stopped letting him touch me the way he wanted. For days, all he had was his voice and his hands, never the rest of me. Not until I decided. But the dog... and Damon... weren’t my real concern. The Pentagon was. That contract—my mother’s signature on a Pentagon agreement. Just how deep was she involved? "Okay," I said softly, rising. "We can go now." He grinned, unaware of the storm in my mind. We headed inside, to the bedroom. The dog waited outside, obedient and still. I heard the rustle of clothes—Damon undressing. I sat down on the edge of the bed, poised. "Kneel," I commanded. He knelt before me without hesitation. "Yes, my queen." He reached for my hand, guiding it to his face. I felt the heat of his breath against my skin as I leaned down slightly. He was already kneeling. "Damon." "Yes, my love." "Perhaps..." I said slowly, "...do you have contact with the Pentagon?" "The Pentagon? As in the one in Virginia?" His voice shifted—wary now. I nodded once. He paused, then chuckled nervously. "I’m curious now," he said, his hands sliding along my thighs. Distraction. "Me too." I lay back against the bed and parted my legs with intent. "I thought," I murmured, "you would’ve done something about it by now." He froze for a breath. And I watched him—through the blur of shapes and light—with quiet, exacting power.