Glory shook her head. “No family. Nothing. Just a foster kid trying to get away from a bad situation.”
Milah nodded. “I’m sorry.”
There was a commotion at the door, and Glory quickly bowed her head. “I better be going. I hope you get well, Miss Russo.”
“Please, call me Milah,” she said.
Glory nodded and then made her escape as Damon made his entrance.
“I see you’re awake.”
Milah watched as Glory left before turning her attention to Damon. She lifted her wrist. “Is this necessary?”
“I cannot risk you hurting yourself.” He closed the door and moved toward her, perching on the bed, by her side. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was chained up, starved, and fed to rats. You?” she asked.
He chuckled. “I can see that even with death calling, it hasn’t stopped that viperous tongue of yours.”
“Why don’t you just kill me? I heard the head of the De Luca empire has no shame in ending women. You are happy to kill anyone and everyone who dares to intervene with your world.” In the back of her mind, she screamed at herself for being so foolish. Now was not the time to be arguing with him.
She didn’t have her strength. Nor did she have a death wish.
Right now, she had to keep in control or risk dying. He had already shown that he had no problem hurting her.
“I am happy to kill anyone who is set to betray all that the De Lucas hold dear. Isn’t that what your dear old dad does? It’s why you are here.”
She wanted to scream at him. “How is the guard?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“The guard that I shot. How is he?” She had thought about the man often while she’d been locked away, hoping she had been right in where she shot him. Killing someone was never her intention. She had no wish to do harm. Unlike her father, she didn’t have a thirst for blood.
There were times growing up when she’d asked about love and kindness, and he’d laughed at her. Her father wasn’t above slapping a girl. He took great pleasure in it too. As far as he was concerned, women had to learn their place, and if that meant hitting them, he was more than happy to do it.
Pulling out of the memory, she looked at Damon.
“You’re concerned about him?” Damon asked.
“Yes. I haven’t … he’s not … can he…” She bit her lip, hating the worry she detected in her voice.
This was not befitting a Russo. Her mother had told her that compassion was something she could only show to those who didn’t know who she was. There were so many fucking rules to abide by.
“James is healing fast. You cut flesh, and after his stitches have healed, all will be well.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” If she ever got the chance to see the guard, she would apologize.
“Your father would be proud of the way you are fighting. I’m sure the Russo name will certainly live on in you.”
She glared at him. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she wasn’t fighting for her father nor for his name, but she gritted her teeth. Damon clearly knew what he was doing. As for herself, she was struggling to keep her emotions in check.
“I am surprised you do not ask about your father,” Damon said.
“I have no interest in what he does. I’m here, aren’t I? That could only mean he has done something … wrong.”
Damon chuckled. “Even now, chained to my bed, you’re going to be stubborn.”
“Do you have a thing for young women?” she asked. “They have labels for men like you.”
She gasped as he leaned in close. His face was so close to hers that she felt his breath brush across her lips. She tensed up.
Not once in all her twenty-one years had she been kissed. There was no way her first kiss was going to be from this man. Just the thought of it made her skin crawl. Staring at him now, she had to wonder what he planned to do to her.
“And what would those labels be?” he asked.
Before she said anything, he smirked and cupped her cheek, running his thumb across her bottom lip. He dared to touch her.
She stayed perfectly still.