Daddy's Worst Nightmare

Why do people do anything unless that hot whiplash of relief is the end game?

Wow.

Wow, it was amazing.

I want to feel it again.

More, I want to give that release to Damian.

Where is he?

I stretch my arms up over my head and sit up, yawning as I take in my surroundings.

Geez, this bedroom is even nicer than mine back in Manhattan. There is a huge window overlooking the ocean and a gentle breeze lifts the light blue curtains, sending them reaching toward the bed like elegant fingers. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead and the bed, my God, it’s enough to fit eighteen people, let alone one. Everything is decorated in blue and white and turquoise, the plush rugs and furniture designed for comfort.

Eager to find Damian and see the rest of the house, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go to the closet, finding a short, white silk robe with an A embroidered on the pocket. The wings of my heart flap in my chest at Damian’s thoughtfulness. At everything he’s done to bring me here. To make me feel wanted and safe.

Maybe moving to a strange place with a self-proclaimed criminal who blackmailed my father should make me nervous. But he’s been such a huge part of my life, even while silent, for years, that this journey feels inevitable and right. I’m where I’m supposed to be. The steady beat of my heart is telling me so.

I belt the robe around my naked body and turn to leave the room—

That’s when a terrible thought occurs to me.

On the ride to the Hamptons, Damian said he needed to feel good.

That he would find a way to handle it until I’m ready.

But…I’ve never been able to make myself feel good by myself.

Does that mean he has to find another woman until I’m ready?

Jealousy spikes in my chest and the tantrum comes on before I can stop it.

One second, I’m the calmest I’ve ever been. The next, I’m seeing red.

My fingernails dig into my palms and pressure shoves outward from the center of my throat, leaving me right on the precipice of screaming. And I do scream, I let it out loud enough to shake the chandelier above the bed when I picture another woman’s hands on my Damian.

I stomp out of the room and pick up the first breakable item I can find—a vase on a pedestal—and throw it down the hallway, letting it smash on the marble floor.

“Damian!”

Damian

I’m pacing the floor of my office when I hear breaking glass, followed by a scream.

My heart stops.

I lurch toward the door with unthinkable visions in my head. Arya hurt. Arya bleeding. Fuck. Fuck! Did someone get into the house? I’ve made it impossible. Every inch of the grounds is surrounded by fifteen-foot-high wrought-iron fences and patrolled by ruthless guards toting semi-automatic weapons. There is no way. No one could have gotten to her.

That’s what I tell myself, but I’m gasping for sanity by the time I get up the stairs, my blood frozen in place. If she’s hurt, I’ll throw myself from the roof. I won’t be able to live knowing she was injured or worse in my care. Please, no, please let her be…

She wheels out of the hallway, a righteously pissed off angel with a vendetta and I rock back on my heels, sucking down droves of air. She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s…

Mad as hell.

That makes two of us.

“Why would you scream like that, Arya?” I shout, storming toward her. Not only to chastise her for giving me a heart attack, but to touch her, reassure myself there isn’t a single nick on her skin. “I thought you were being hurt!”

“I am! You are hurting me!”

Hurting her? No. I almost drop to my knees. As it is, I double over, a dagger of denial twisting in my stomach. “What? How?”

“Is there another woman here?” She lunges for a statue resting on the landing bookshelf, picks it up and hurls it—at my head. “I will kill her. I will kill her!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Arya? There has been no woman in the house but you.” My mind spins. “Are you actually jealous? I live for you. I built this house for you. I’m being burned alive every second of the day for you.”

“You said you would find a way to feel good without me,” she sobs, tears clouding her eyes. “How are you doing it?”

“The same way I’ve been handling it since you became a woman, Arya.”

She stomps her foot. “How?”

With an angry bellow, I stoop down and throw her quivering form over my shoulder, striding back toward the bedroom. She pounds her fists on my back and I don’t try to stop her, too furious to do anything but focus on where I’m going. What I’m going to do to her. Her parents couldn’t teach her a lesson or thwart her tantrums, but I’m in charge now. I’m God, Daddy, Lover, Disciplinarian and Bodyguard to this girl and she’s about to feel all of them.