Page 14 of Ruthless Vow
The word hangs between us. Final.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t accept. Doesn’t refuse.
He just looks at me, and his jaw unlocks. Not softer. Not warmer. But the wall behind his eyes thins, just enough for me to see a flicker of the man past it. He hasn’t decided yet what to do about that.
I don’t know if I’ve won or lost. If this is the worst mistake of my life, or the best.
But I don’t look away. I don’t apologize. I don’t shrink.
For the first time in twenty-four years, I stand in a room and refuse to disappear.
And Dante Santoro is looking at me like he can’t look away.
4
DANTE
Yes.
One word. One syllable. And my entire plan goes up in flames.
She’s standing three feet away, chin lifted, pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. I can see the tremble she’s trying to hide. Can catch the scent of her, soft and floral, too gentle for this room.
Close enough to do something stupid.
I should step back. Create distance. Send her home and find another solution, another bride, someone who doesn’t look at me like she can see past the monster to what’s underneath.
Someone who doesn’t make my blood run hot.
I don’t move.
She fills out that burgundy dress like a threat. Soft in all the places I want to sink my fingers. The neckline sits just low enough to make my pulse hammer, and when she shifts, the fabric whispers against her skin.
She’s heat and defiance wrapped in silk, and she hasn’t flinched once since she walked through my door.
Everyone flinches.
My father’s captains flinch. Men twice her age with blood on their hands look away. But this woman stands in my study like she belongs here, like she has every right to demand my attention. It makes me want to push her. Test her limits. See how far that steel spine bends before it breaks.
Or doesn’t.
Renzo is still against the wall. Waiting. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but I know my brother. He’s assessing her the same way I am. Threat assessment. Capability analysis. The cold calculation that keeps us alive.
I wonder what he sees.
I see a problem I didn’t plan for.
I had a strategy. A clinical marriage. Controlled distance. An heir and nothing more. A wife I could keep walled off for the rest of my life.
This woman is none of those things.
She admitted she’s terrified. Then she lifted her chin and told me she doesn’t run. My ribs loosened a fraction I didn’t authorize. Her words landed somewhere I’d bricked shut years ago.
I won’t run.
Three words. And I believed her.
I turn away. Face the window. The morning light cuts through the blinds in sharp lines, and I focus on that instead of the curve of her hips, fabric shifting when she breathes, the rapid flutter at the base of her neck.
