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When I ate dessert.

When I wore something my grandmother thought was too tight.

When I failed to be whatever version of a Ramos Witch they wanted me to be.

It was always the same question. Always spoken like the answer could only possibly be—something wrong.

Except this time, I'm not sixteen. I'm thirty-eight years old.

I'm standing in front of my home. My business. My inheritance. And Damian's hand is wrapped around mine.

Not pulling. Not pushing. Just there. Warm. Steady.

Supporting me.

I look at my mother.

“I didn't do anything.”

Her gaze darts pointedly toward the mark on my neck.

“Don't be ridiculous, Belinda. You've been claimed.”

“Yes.”

“By the Jersey Devil.”

Damian stiffens beside me. His wings twitch. A low sound rumbles in his chest.

I squeeze his hand. He looks down at me. Those red-black eyes ask a question.

Want me to handle this?

I give the tiniest shake of my head. His jaw tightens. But he nods.

That's all.

No argument.

No stepping in front of me.

No announcing that I'm his and everyone else can fuck off.

Although I can practically feel how badly he wants to.

Instead, he lets me handle my family.

Goddess. I think I might love this man even more than I did an hour ago. The realization is so startling I almost miss my mother's next words.

“This is precisely why I came. You've clearly gotten yourself into a situation you don't understand.”

And there goes the warm feeling.

“What situation?”

Melida steps forward.

“Belinda, Mother isn't attacking you.”