My Immortal (Seven Deadly Sins #1)(42)
Author: Erin McCarthy

"And you always say no, which is stupid. Come on, we know each other inside and out, and I can just take the edge off for you."

"What you want is to control me."

"So what’s wrong with that?" She smirked at him.

Damien suddenly wanted to yank that smugness off her face. "Fine. You want to help me out, you can go down on me. That would be a huge help and I really appreciate the offer."

Her jaw dropped. "You want me to give you head?"

"Yes." He moved to undo his jeans, taking a sick delight in the confusion and alarm on her face. "You’re better than nothing, and like you said, we do know each other well."

She pulled away and made a face at him. "Oh, gee, thanks, that’s real flattering. Forget it. I’m not going to do it if you have that kind of an attitude."

He’d thought so. Damien felt a certain smugness of his own. If Rosa wanted to play games, he could play them right back.

"Go ask Marley to do it, I’m sure she’d jump at the chance. She’s totally hot for you."

That ruined his triumph at besting Rosa. "Leave Marley alone," he said through gritted teeth.

Rosa stared at him, then burst out laughing. "Oh, this is too precious. You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?"

It was hard to shrug casually when his heart was pounding and he had broken out in a sweat. He refused to fall for Marley. He absolutely would not allow it. "Don’t be ridiculous. We both know I’m immune to selfless feelings."

"That’s true," she said cheerfully. "You are pretty much a gigantic bastard. I like that side of you better than this weird self-flagellating Damien you’ve turned into. I admit, when I met you, I thought you could use a good smack of humility, but I never wanted you to become a boring exercise in self-restraint. You’re like a poster child for suffering. The father doesn’t like it."

Damien clenched his fists. "I’m doing what I was told to do. I create an environment of sin for others. Women take their clothes off for me. That’s all I agreed to do, and that’s all he’s getting from me."

Rosa crossed her arms and stared at the wall, at his painting of The Punishment of Lust. "And every time you thumb your nose at the Grigori, every time you stand up in defiance and refuse to accept what you are, I get a stripe on my back for the mistake I made."

Damien felt the blood drain from his face. She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was. "What do you mean?" He was hoping he was wrong, very wrong in how he was interpreting her statement.

But Rosa turned to him, her chin lifted defiantly. "I mean I get beaten when you disobey. I am the one who made you, you are my mistake, and I’m not allowed to forget that."

The guilt dropped onto his already heavy burden and Damien felt sick, his hand shaking, his gut twisted and gnarled as he realized how truly vile he was and how much pain he had caused in his lifetime.

"Rosa… I didn’t know. I’m sorry."

She bristled. "I don’t need your pity, any more than you want mine. It’s the way it is, and it’s the way it always will be until you accept who and what you are."

That was what he was afraid of, his biggest fear. That someday he wouldn’t be able to fight, to resist, to bear the burden any longer, and he would give in to what he was, what he had become. "Why don’t I get punished? I’ve never even met your father, and he’s definitely never punished me."

"How do you know?" she asked, grabbing her beaded purse off the sofa and sticking her hand through the circular handle. "You don’t know anything."

"Explain it to me. Let me understand so I can help you." He’d never liked Rosa, but sometimes he suspected that was because they were so very alike. And he didn’t want Rosa to take any more punishment on his behalf. Hiding behind a woman’s skirts was cowardly, and while he was a bastard, he wasn’t a coward.

"Oh, f**k off, Damien. I don’t need your help." She whirled around and stomped toward the door. As she blew past his desk, the wastebasket erupted into flames. The white ceramic bowl he dropped his keys into went spiraling off the end table and crashed on the wood floor. And as she passed through the front door, a crack of lightning illuminated the yard as punctuation to her anger.

Damien poured water on his wastebasket and marveled at how quickly his evening had gone downhill.

He’d offended Marley and pissed off Rosa. Two for two. He wasn’t just a bastard, he was an accomplished bastard.

Raucous laughter filled the room. Damien glanced over at the movie Rosa had been watching on his DVD player. Dangerous Liaisons. That was ironic.

Rosa flew across the yard, angry tears blurring her vision. She had always had a fondness for Damien, had always been bothered by the fact that he didn’t take what she offered so freely. But she had shrugged that off.

Pity could not be disregarded. She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her, ever. That look he’d given her had changed her mind. She had been about to tell him the truth, that her father’s plan to punish Damien was already in play. That it involved Marley and her sister, the very stupid and slutty blonde Rosa had met back at the beginning of the summer.

Rosa had been planning to warn Damien, risk herself yet again for him, but now she hoped he’d choke on his pity. He had never appreciated her enough, and now he was going to pay for that serious error in judgment.

Chapter Twelve

Within a matter of a few short weeks, I was with child again. We celebrated that fact with an excess of wine, food, and conduct inappropriate for the dining room. But as we were alone, and the walnut table was so very large, Damien didn’t see that it mattered ever so much.

I was inclined to agree, as I would have agreed with nearly any suggestion of his during that time. I was drunk on his attention, giddy with anticipation, heady with the freedom of loosening all my moral and personal constraints and embracing my lust. I reveled in pleasure, morning, noon, and night. I could not get enough of Damien, and could be coaxed by him into all manner of misconduct. He could tug me out onto the balcony of his bedchamber sans clothing, tease up my skirt in the drawing room mid-day, bend me over the bed for a hearty good-morning, disrupt my bath with soapy, helpful hands. I allowed it, liked it all.

It is astonishing to me how quickly I was altered, how attention from my husband and exploration of our mutual physical fulfillment could arouse such pride, such vanity, such haughty self-assurance. I was a different woman than I had been when I married Damien—now I was triumphant,

quite pleased with myself, with my husband, with my place in the world.

We were entertaining again as well, and I gloried in it, smiling and reveling in all the comments on how my looks were much improved, and the felicitations for my renewed health. For the first time since my arrival in New Orleans, I sensed jealousy from some of the women, and it thrilled me. I was proud, pleased, feverish, my sensual joy bounding up and spilling out of me in laughter and dancing, my conversations with the ladies verbal sparring matches that I often won. For the first time I partook of the gossip, delivered my own barbs and sallies, and enjoying the admiration I received for my cruel wit.