A Second Chance With Mr. Blackwood

The heat blistered her skin.

Giovanna felt the skin on her arms peeling back, the raw flesh exposed to the roaring flames of the abandoned warehouse. Thick, black smoke coated her throat. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs screamed, burning from the inside out.

"He's dead, Gio." Elara's voice echoed through the crackling fire, dripping with pure malice. "Damien died because of you."

A massive explosion shattered the air. Giovanna's heart seized. A violent spasm ripped through her chest, tearing her consciousness to shreds.

Then, a rush of freezing air punched into her lungs.

Giovanna's eyes snapped open. She gasped, her chest heaving as she coughed violently. She thrashed her arms out, fighting off the invisible flames, but her hands didn't hit burning wood.

Her fingers tangled in cold, smooth silk.

The suffocating stench of smoke was gone. Instead, the crisp, clean scent of cedar and sharp mint filled her nose. It was a scent permanently etched into her brain. Damien's scent.

Her vision blurred, then slowly focused. Above her wasn't a collapsing, charred ceiling, but a massive, multi-million-dollar crystal chandelier.

A tall, broad shadow eclipsed the moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Damien Blackwood stood beside the bed. He looked down at her. His dark eyes were a storm of sick obsession and tightly leashed fury. His jaw was locked so tight the muscle ticked under his skin.

"How long are you going to fake passing out to avoid our wedding night?" His voice was a harsh, gravelly rasp. It held no warmth, only ice.

Giovanna's pupils dilated. The sound of his voice-alive, deep, vibrating in the quiet room-hit her like a physical blow. Tears instantly flooded her eyes, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks.

She ignored the venom in his words. Her eyes locked onto his face. It was flawless. Young. Handsome. There were no burn scars. No blood.

She whipped her head to the side. The vintage digital clock on the nightstand glowed with the date.

Seven years ago.

The night he had forced the consummation of their marriage. The night before everything went to hell.

Damien saw her tears. His chest stopped moving. A flash of raw, unfiltered pain cracked through his cold facade, quickly swallowed by a surge of dark violence. He thought she was crying out of pure disgust for him.

He let out a low, bitter laugh. He took a half-step back, his body turning toward the door. He was going to walk away. Just like he did in her past life.

Panic seized Giovanna's throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She threw the silk blanket off and swung her bare feet onto the cold floor.

She tried to stand, but the sheer, overwhelming shock of rebirth and seeing him alive finally crashed down upon her. A violent wave of dizziness washed over her brain, and her legs gave out. She pitched forward, falling straight toward the hardwood floor.

Damien's instincts overrode his anger. He moved faster than thought. His large hands shot out, catching her upper arms in a vice grip before her knees could hit the ground.

Giovanna didn't try to stand up. She used his momentum, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face into his broad, solid chest.

Damien froze. Every single muscle in his body turned to stone. His hands hovered in the empty air behind her back, terrified to touch her.

Giovanna inhaled deeply, greedily sucking in the scent of him. He was warm. He was breathing. Her tears soaked right through the thin fabric of his custom-tailored dress shirt, burning against his skin.

Damien's brain short-circuited. His breathing turned shallow. The extreme paranoia that kept him alive screamed at him. This was a trick. She was faking it. She wanted him to drop his guard so she could run.

He grabbed her forearms, his grip bruising. He tried to peel her off his body, forcing her to look at him.

Giovanna refused to let go. She tightened her hold, rising onto her tiptoes, pressing her body flush against his.

"D," she whispered. Her voice was broken, thick with tears, but incredibly soft. "Don't push me away."

Damien's pupils blew wide. The nickname hit him like a bullet to the chest. She had never called him that. Never.

Giovanna tilted her head back. She closed her eyes, her eyelashes wet and trembling. She pressed her soft, parted lips directly against his hard, thin mouth.

The last thread of Damien's control snapped.

He didn't just accept the kiss; he devoured it. His large hands slammed into her back, crushing her against him. He took over, his mouth slanting over hers with a desperate, punishing heat.

As his tongue swept into her mouth, stealing her breath, Giovanna made a silent vow. She would make every single person who ever hurt him bleed.

Morning sunlight slashed through the massive windows, warming the tangled sheets. Giovanna opened her eyes.

A heavy, muscular arm was clamped around her waist like an iron band. Her back was pressed tight against a furnace of a chest.

She didn't scream. She didn't thrash. She moved with agonizing slowness, rolling over within his tight grip until she faced him.

Damien looked peaceful in sleep. Giovanna stared at his profile, her heart doing a slow, heavy thump in her chest. She raised her hand, her fingertip lightly tracing the sharp bridge of his nose.

His breathing was slow and even. But the rigid line of his jaw gave him away. He was awake. He was faking it.

Damien's mind was racing. He analyzed every micro-movement she made. He waited for the knife in the back, the screaming match, the inevitable demand for a divorce. This sudden, docile behavior had to be a trap.

Giovanna saw the slight flutter of his thick eyelashes. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.

She leaned in. Her lips brushed against the hard bump of his Adam's apple, leaving a feather-light kiss on his throat.

Damien's body jerked. The act was over. His dark eyes snapped open, blazing with a dangerous intensity.

His hand shot up, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist. He squeezed, the pressure bordering on painful. His eyes searched her face, looking for the lie.

Giovanna didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her head and rubbed her soft cheek against the rough palm of the hand holding her captive. She looked at him like a lazy, content cat.

"You're hurting me, D," she murmured. Her morning voice was raspy, heavy with sleep and completely devoid of fear. It sounded like a pout.

Damien dropped her wrist like it was on fire. He stared at the faint red marks his fingers left on her pale skin. A flash of regret darkened his eyes.

Before he could speak, a sharp, aggressive knock hammered against the heavy double doors of the master bedroom.

"Breakfast is served." Mrs. Gable's cold, rigid voice bled through the wood. The head housekeeper didn't bother hiding her disdain.

Damien's expression instantly turned murderous. He knew Mrs. Gable hated Giovanna. Usually, this was the exact moment Giovanna would start throwing lamps and screaming about being a prisoner.

He sat up, his broad shoulders tensing, ready to absorb the explosion he knew was coming.

Giovanna placed her hand flat against his bare chest. She pushed him back against the pillows. Her touch was light, but the command in her eyes was absolute.

She slid out of bed. She grabbed Damien's discarded black dress shirt from the floor and pulled it on. It swallowed her small frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh.

She walked barefoot to the door and yanked it open.

Mrs. Gable stood in the hallway, her chin raised in a permanent sneer. The sneer vanished the second she saw Giovanna.

The housekeeper's eyes widened, taking in the oversized men's shirt and the very obvious, dark red bruises blooming along Giovanna's collarbone.

"It is Mrs. Blackwood to you," Giovanna said. Her voice was ice. It wasn't a request; it was an executioner's sentence.

Mrs. Gable opened her mouth, her face flushing red. "I-"

"Shut up," Giovanna cut her off. She stepped closer, invading the older woman's space. The dead, hollow look in Giovanna's eyes-a look of absolute, chilling authority that promised utter destruction-made Mrs. Gable physically step back. "Go down to the kitchen. Tell the chef to prepare two American breakfasts. Now."

Mrs. Gable swallowed hard. Her hands shook. She bowed her head awkwardly. "Yes, Mrs. Blackwood." She turned and practically ran down the grand staircase.

Giovanna shut the door. The loud click echoed in the quiet room.

When she turned back around, the ice in her eyes melted. A sweet, bright smile lit up her face.

Damien was sitting up against the headboard. His eyes were locked on her, tracking her every move. He looked at her like she was a completely different species, something fascinating and terrifying.

Giovanna walked back to the bed. She crawled up the mattress and straddled his hips. She looped her arms around his neck.

"Did I act like a proper Mrs. Blackwood just now?" she asked softly.

Damien's Adam's apple bobbed. He didn't use words. His large hands grabbed the back of her head, pulling her down, and he answered her with a kiss that tasted like raw possession.

Giovanna stood in the massive walk-in closet. She bypassed the flashy, revealing clothes she used to wear to annoy Damien. She pulled out a tailored, burgundy Ivy League-style dress. The high collar perfectly hid the marks on her neck.

When she walked out, Damien was waiting by the bedroom door. He wore a dark, bespoke suit that cost more than most people's houses. His eyes swept over her, still calculating, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Giovanna didn't hesitate. She walked up to him and slid her hand through the crook of his arm.

They walked down the sweeping marble staircase together.

The maids dusting the foyer stopped moving. They stared, their mouths slightly open, shocked to see the master of the house and his volatile wife walking arm-in-arm without screaming at each other.

They entered the long dining room. Damien pulled out a chair for her at the mahogany table before taking his seat at the head.

A maid placed a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Giovanna. Damien had always ordered it for her, thinking she liked it.

Giovanna pushed the coffee away. She reach for the glass of warm, sweet milk meant for her oatmeal. She lifted the glass and playfully clinked it against Damien's coffee mug.

Before Damien could process the change, a low, sharp beep sounded from the earpiece of the head of security standing by the door.

The security chief stepped forward. "Boss. Elara Vang is at the front gate."

The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Damien's face turned to stone. "Deny entry."

Giovanna knew Elara would come. She reached across the table and placed her hand over Damien's clenched fist.

"D," she said softly, her thumb rubbing over his white knuckles. "Let her in. I have some things I need to say to my dear sister."

Damien stared at her hand on his. He looked up, his dark eyes searching hers. He hated it, but he gave a sharp nod to the security chief.

Three minutes later, the dining room doors burst open.

Elara rushed in. She wore a pristine white designer skirt suit. Her eyes were already rimmed with red, her face the perfect picture of frantic worry.

She completely ignored Damien. She ran straight toward Giovanna, reaching out to grab her hands.

"Gio!" Elara cried out, her voice trembling with fake tears. "Are you okay? Did he force you again last night?"

The silence in the dining room became suffocating. The killing intent rolling off Damien's body was a physical weight in the air.

Elara waited for the explosion. She waited for Giovanna to scream, to throw her milk at Damien, to demand to leave.

Giovanna didn't move. She picked up a linen napkin, elegantly dabbed the corner of her mouth, and slowly stood up.

She sidestepped Elara's reaching hands. She looked at her sister the way one looks at a rotting piece of meat on the sidewalk.

Elara's hands fell to her sides. A cold spike of panic hit her stomach. This wasn't the script.

Giovanna took a step forward, closing the distance.

Without a single change in her expression, Giovanna raised her right hand and slapped Elara across the face.

The crack of skin against skin echoed off the high ceiling like a gunshot. The force of the blow threw Elara off balance. She crashed hard onto the polished wood floor.

The maids gasped. Even Damien's eyes widened a fraction of an inch.

Elara held her rapidly swelling cheek. She stared up at Giovanna, genuine shock replacing the fake tears. "Are you crazy?! I'm trying to help you!"

Giovanna looked down at her. A cruel, mocking smile touched her lips.

"Help me?" Giovanna's voice was crystal clear, making sure every person in the room heard her. "Or help me piss off my husband?"

She turned her head. She looked right at Damien. Her smile softened into something incredibly warm.

"Listen closely, Elara," Giovanna said, her eyes never leaving Damien's. "He is my beloved husband. I will not tolerate you disrespecting him in our home."

Damien's chest hitched. The dark, violent storm in his eyes vanished, replaced by a burning, obsessive heat. The words 'beloved husband' wrapped around his heart and squeezed tight.