He smiles wider. “Still mad, pup?”
“Yes.”
“Still losing your mind over one loss?”
“Yes.”
“Still planning to be my husband?”
I freeze, then nod, then blink rapidly because I hate him and he’s too hot and I can’t fucking breathe when he says things like that.
“Then quit tearing the apartment apart and come sit with me,” he says, reaching for my wrist, tugging me close.
“I hate you,” I mumble, climbing into his lap anyway.
“I know.”
“Not giving up.”
“I’m counting on it.”
I shift in his lap, arms folded tight, still vibrating with frustration and spite and the kind of feral energy only a loss and a hidden ring can create. He smells like sin and whiskey and smugness. I hate him so bad I wanna marry him twice.
And then I notice it, the bulge—not that one, okay yes that one too, but the one in his pocket—because his slacks are tailored and tight and there’s something in the right one, thick enough to snag my attention, square and suspicious and boxy. I freeze, eyes narrowing as my hand slides—real slow, real casual—toward his hip.
“Don’t,” he warns.
I smile sweetly and do it anyway.
The second my fingers graze the edge of his pocket, Damian growls. Growls. And a heartbeat later I yelp, because the fucker grabs me by the waist and throws me over his shoulder. I shriek, kick, slap his ass, but he hauls me down the hallway, one hand firm on my thigh, the other wrapped around my hip like he’s got every intention of committing a felony with it.
“Cap!” I squawk, upside-down, jostling as he walks. “Put me down! I saw it! It’s in your pocket!”
“It’s not the ring, pup,” he mutters, half laughing now. “You think I’m that careless?”
“You’re that cocky!”
“Also true.” He kicks open the bedroom door and tosses me onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes with abandonment issues. I bounce, flail, and land in a heap of twisted shirt, one sock, and sheer, undignified rage.
“Fuck you,” I huff.
He kicks the door shut, steps closer, and grins that dangerous grin. “You’re gonna,” he says.
And my brain shorts out. “Okay,” I say, sitting up, hair a mess, shirt halfway down one shoulder. “What if, hypothetically, I do everything you want. Right now. No whining. No bratting. I even make you coffee in the morning. Two sugars. That weird creamer you like. Full blowjob while it brews.”
Damian raises an eyebrow from where he’s leaning on the door. His arms are crossed. His face is neutral. That vein in his neck is not.
I keep going. “I cook. I clean. I stop stealing your socks. I don’t chirp the refs. I—fuck it, I’ll stop chirping Viktor. I’ll be an angel. Halo and everything.”
His mouth twitches.
I crawl forward on the bed, slow and dramatic, until I’m kneeling at the edge, resting my chin on my fists like a kitten in heat and blink up at him. “All I want in return,” I purr, drawing the words out like a tease, “is to see it.”
Damian hums low in his throat. “See what?”
I blink at him, lashes heavy, expression pure bait. “You know what,” I whine, just enough brat to make it sweet.
“The ring?”
