Flash Marriage: In His Eyes
Chapter 90: First Blood

Chapter 90: First Blood

–Livana–

I invited Miss Faux—Deanne—to dinner. David was gawking at her. She wore a plain, slightly tight dress that hugged her curves just enough. She didn’t need to try. Her presence was enough. I think David was already drooling.

Out of habit—and curiosity—I tilted my head to check if my husband would glance at her. But Damon’s gaze never left me.

Good.

I just needed to confirm something. Would Damon look at another woman? Would he be aroused or even mildly attracted? He’s a man, after all. And men—they react. Especially to women like Deanne.

"Deanne," I called softly.

"Yes, Liva?"

"I hope you’re enjoying your meal."

"I am." She smiled, and I focused on her chin.

"Babe, turn your head to me," Damon murmured.

"What?"

"If you could see," he said casually, "you’d better stay away from Deanne. I don’t want you turning into a lesbian."

I furrowed my brows.

"Even Alyssa and Laura seem to be falling for her charm," he added under his breath.

I couldn’t believe this man. Why is he not affected?

"And you’re not?" I asked.

"She’s... a woman. That’s all." He shrugged. "Anyway, good thing you can’t see her."

"But I know her features," I reminded him.

"So, you’re not into her?" he teased. "Because Laura is starting to have second thoughts about marrying Damien."

"If Deanne agrees to marry me, then sorry, Damien—I’m off the market," Laura quipped. And I’d noticed how they couldn’t keep their eyes off Deanne.

"Hell no!" Damien snapped.

"Am I a distraction?" Deanne’s voice, naturally sultry, curled around the room like smoke.

I tapped Damon’s lap to check if he was aroused. Unfortunately, this man gets hard just from my touch. I nudged him again.

"Check on your brother. He’s the one who can’t seem to function during dinner," I whispered.

"No, you’re not a distraction!" Laura piped up. "It’s just been a while, Deanne. What do you say—should we get married?"

Deanne laughed, soft and graceful.

"Laura, I’d rather not get murdered by your fiancé," she said, then winked at Alyssa.

A woman’s man... and a woman’s woman. I chuckled to myself. This is exactly why I hired her. Not just for her looks—though they are useful—but because she’s competent, calculating, professional. She doesn’t fall for men. Not anymore. Her past is her past. I made sure she had enough power to dominate, even destroy, the kind of men who used to hurt her.

She doesn’t kill. That’s not her domain. But she leads. Among the officials I appointed, she’s the youngest, yet she feels like the commander—the sharpest blade in the room.

"Damien looks pissed," Damon laughed.

That’s when I noticed Damon finally turned to face Deanne.

"You look familiar," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Really?" she smirked. "You probably saw me at the casino."

Casino. Where Damon lost two million, I believe. She won it—and took even more from the pockets of the men seated at that table. I smirked.

"You lost two million to her," Damien said, barely hiding his grin as he poked at his fish, checking for bones.

"Oh fuck," Damon chuckled. "You’re right."

"What game?" I asked.

"Blackjack." He rubbed my back. "Want to play with me tonight? I had a custom deck made for you."

I shrugged. "Hmm."

"It’s not about money," he whispered in my ear.

Deanne chuckled.

"You won’t beat her."

"Really?" Damon challenged, eyes narrowing with a grin. "I can’t just let my wife win."

I could hear the arousal in his voice—how it vibrated in the way he breathed the words.

"We can play too," David finally spoke, probably after swallowing his lust. "But maybe change the rules. Instead of money..."

Deanne nearly scoffed. "I don’t play with pervs."

"David, watch your mouth," Damon snapped. "That’s no way to treat a guest."

He stood up and ran his hand over my shoulder. "I’ll make some calls, my love."

"Wow," David muttered. "He never really cared before, huh?"

It wasn’t that Damon didn’t care. I suspect he knows who Deanne is—and what she’s been through.

"I’m sorry, Deanne. I hope you’re not offended," I said.

"Hmm. I’m used to it." Her voice was steady, unfazed.

I gently placed my utensils down just as Damon returned and sat beside me.

I finished my plate—every bite. Damon did the same. We don’t waste food.

"Deanne, I had a room prepared for you," I told her.

This was my mini-mansion. I wanted her to feel safe here. Only David and Alyssa had been invited. They wanted to see the place anyway.

"I need to check on a few things," I said, placing a hand on Damon’s shoulder and sliding it gently down his back.

I reached for my walking stick and made my way out of the dining hall. Before I could step onto the stairs, Damon swept me up in his arms.

"Blackjack it is," he whispered, smirking.

He set me down on the sofa and started rummaging through a drawer.

"I’m sure I left it here somewhere," he muttered.

I turned away, staring into nothing.

"So... you know Deanne?" I asked.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I remember you killed her stepdad. Your mom had to clean it up. She called me because I was stalking you at the time. Remember?"

"I know you were stalking me," I said, folding my arms.

Deanne and I had gone to her house to work on a project. She was terrified—didn’t want me to leave. Her father had no idea I was there. That night became my first kill.

And if I had to? I’d do it again.

It wasn’t just her stepfather. It was also her uncle. My mother had to handle him. She threatened that man—and would have killed him if needed.

And Deanne’s mother? Delusional. Drunk on jealousy, especially toward her daughter.

Deanne got the better genes. Voluptuous from her father’s side, refined from her mother’s.

"You know," Damon murmured, crawling toward me and cupping my cheeks, "you make me hard when you protect that little friend of yours."

"You don’t like me getting my hands dirty," I said quietly. "But I’d do it again. For her."

"Of course you would," he whispered. "That bastard tried to rape her every night."

Indeed. My rookie mistake during my first kill was not confirming if the bastard was actually dead.

I hit his head hard with a vase and pushed him off the eighteen steps stairs—or so I thought. But adrenaline clouds judgment. I was too focused on disposing of the evidence, too caught up in managing the scene, that I didn’t stay to watch the life leave his eyes.

Damon did.

He thought I didn’t see him. That I was too preoccupied to notice his presence in the reflection of that smeared hallway mirror. But I saw him clearly—how he stepped forward, silent and lethal, his face void of hesitation. I remember the way his hand wrapped around the man’s throat, his grip tightening until the veins bulged in his own arm. The sound of cartilage grinding, his knuckles whitening, and then that final jerk of the neck. It was brutal. Efficient. Nearly inhuman.

And strangely, I was glad he was there.

Not because I needed saving—no, I never wanted that. But because he understood what had to be done, without question, without delay.

I expected fury from my mother. Disappointment, maybe even punishment. But when I told her, she simply looked at me with that unreadable softness in her eyes, the one she wore only when she was about to deliver a truth I wouldn’t like. Her voice was calm, almost motherly in the most terrifying way, as she walked me through my mistakes.

"You don’t leave a man breathing," she said. "Not one like him."

She didn’t scold me. She didn’t raise her voice. And that hurt more. It made me feel... foolish.

But what really made my blood boil?

Damon. Standing at the corner like some victorious knight, arms folded, lips curled into that damn infuriating grin of his. Like he was proud of me. Like he’d been waiting to see me like that—bloody, shaken, and not as perfect as I pretended to be.

I hated him for that grin.

And yet... a small part of me wanted to smile with him.

But I didn’t.

Because even back then, I already knew. Damon would be the one man who could both kill for me... and destroy me, all while laughing through it.

–Damon–

My wife’s first kill?

Yeah... I was there. Watching. Stalking. Always one step behind her, hidden in the shadows like the lunatic I’ve always been—for her.

She didn’t know I’d been following her that night. But I knew what she was up to. And when I saw her slip into that filthy house with Deanne, I called her mother. Out of respect? No. Just protocol. She deserved to know her daughter was about to get her hands dirty.

When she panicked for half a second—just a flicker of doubt—I stepped in. That bastard wasn’t dead. He was still twitching, gasping through the hit. It wasn’t hesitation on her part. It was inexperience. A rookie move. She turned her back too fast, too focused on erasing the evidence to make sure the bastard stopped breathing.

So I helped.

I finished him off with my bare hands.

Snapped his neck like it was nothing. Felt the bones crack beneath my fingers, the breath sputtering out of his lungs. It was a good kill. Necessary. And if I’m being honest? I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching her reaction too—the way her breath hitched, how quickly she shut down the emotion and kicked into planning mode. Like she was born to do this.

There were no maids in that house. Of course there weren’t. The stepfather made sure of that. He wanted Deanne isolated, vulnerable. Easy prey.

Her mother? A washed-up beauty queen rotting in her own delusions. Jealous of her own daughter. Addicted to vanity and the attention she no longer received.

Livana never thanked me. In fact, she was furious. Rage simmered in her eyes like I’d stolen something from her.

But come on... that man almost hurt her. Almost hurt my woman.

She didn’t even check for a pulse.

If I hadn’t been there—if I hadn’t finished it—he might have gotten back up and lunged. And I don’t care how capable she is. No one lays a finger on her. No one.

*****

"Blackjack it is," I said with a grin, letting my fingers drag lazily along my thigh.

She tilted her head, ever calculating.

"You mean strip?"

"Yeah."

"Babe, I’m blind. You might cheat."

I smirked, stepping closer. "Baby, I would never cheat on you."

Not with cards. Not with anything. There’s no one else. There will never be anyone else.

This game? It’s just a pretense. What I really want... is her. Always her. Playing, testing, provoking. That’s how she loves me. And God, I’m starving for it.

I want her to play because it means she’s still mine. Still choosing me.

I want her to be sharp. Calculating. Lethal.

Because that’s the version of her that makes my obsession worse.

If anyone says I’m a fool for loving a woman like Livana?

They’re right. I am a fool.

A goddamn willing captive of my own obsession.

And this woman—this dangerous, brilliant, beautiful woman—is the prison I never want to leave.

She’s mine.

The subject of my worship.

The center of my madness.

And tonight?

I want her to undress like a queen... and beat me at blackjack like a killer.