Page 35 of A Vow So Soulless

This year?!

That can’t be right. That must be a typo. But a frantic click through of the other news links shows me that they all have the same date listed, and it correlates to the date Valentina had in her original email.

So this is how he’s going to play it, then. Force me into this marriage and make it happen so fast that there’s no way for me to escape it, no way for me to explore any other options. There’s no chance to wait a year or two and see if Darragh cools off, or if he’s willing to make some other kind of bargain. Nope, it’s just straight to the altar for us, then.

Once again, I can’t get over the shocked confusion that Elio is actually going to these lengths to protect me. Or maybe just to own me. Who even knows at this point? But I can’t deny the slight twist of toxic pleasure I feel in my belly when I remember what he said last night, when I assumed he couldn’t actually want to marry me.

Do I look like the sort of man who does a single fucking thing he doesn’t want to do?

Whatever the outcome with Darragh ends up being, Elio does seem to think he wants to marry me. Which is insane, considering we only officially met about a month ago. His stalking behaviour aside, anyway.

I let go of the mouse, noticing the anxiety-sweat handprint I’ve left behind. I rub my clammy palms on my leggings and then straighten up. I’ve seen enough in here for now. I yank open the door to find Robbie standing directly on the other side, as if he was trying to use X-Ray vision to peer through the door.

I don’t say anything to him. I just walk past him to the kitchen. I pick up the cup of tea I abandoned and take a huge sip.

But the tea’s gone cold. And it doesn’t do a single thing to help.

Chapter 11

Elio

“I don’t love this, Boss,” Enzo mutters from below as I haul myself over the ropes and into the ring.

“You sound like an old broad. When was the last time I asked you if you loved a single fucking decision I’ve ever made?” I toss back at him. Curse stands beside him on the floor. My brother knows better than to question me when I’ve made up my mind on something. Plus, he knows that I don’t fucking plan on losing. He stares at me steadily as I roll my shoulders. Fuck, that stiff shoulder might be a problem. It doesn’t hurt too bad right now, but it could be a liability where speed is concerned.

“I’m your head of security,” Enzo says with a shrug. “I’m supposed to worry like an old broad does.”

Well, I don’t need any of that shit right now. Right now, all I need to do is beat this weird-eyed motherfucker in his own damn ring.

“What are the parameters?” I ask Darragh. He’s in the ring now, too, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet so fast he looks like a manic kangaroo or some shit.

“Bare knuckles,” he says. “Though those are pretty thin. You can keep ’em on if you want.”

He means my leather gloves.

But Darragh isn’t wearing anything on his knuckles, not even tape, so I’m not going to be the prissy one covering up my precious, shitty hands. With harsh, quick movements, I tug off the gloves and toss them backwards, knowing that Enzo or Curse will catch them without even having to look.

Darragh’s eyes go to my hands as I flex my fingers. He lets out a low whistle.

“No wonder you’re always wearing them. You got some real Phantom of the Opera shit going for you there.”

I don’t know much about Phantom of the Opera except for the whole white mask thing. That and there always seems to be some young, beautiful woman swooning before his monstrous, possessive gaze.

Which… considering the Songbird I’ve got locked up in my tower, might actually be a fair comparison.

I don’t bother responding, just watch him as he bounces around and shakes out his hands. He’s actually only a year younger than I am, but there’s this frenetic energy burning in him that makes me feel like there’s a decade between us.

“First one to land a good, hard blow to the face and draw blood wins,” Darragh continues. He swoops his arms in big arcs as he continues to limber up. Which seems kind of unnecessary, since he’s probably already warmed up from his last fight, but if he wants to do his weird fucking pre-fight thing then more power to him, I guess. Maybe it’ll tire him out a bit before we start.

“Fine. I agree to the terms,” I say, giving a tight nod and raising my fists. It’s fucking weird to have them this close to my face without the gloves on. But I’m not looking at them anyway. Gotta keep my attention focused on my opponent.

Other than that one nose-crunching punch I gave Brian, it’s been a long while since I beat somebody to a pulp in a fight with my fists, but the feeling comes right back as I assume my stance. I’m barely aware of how every person in this place is now gathered around the ring, all of them staring at us as we stare at each other. One of Darragh’s men calls the start to the fight, and when Darragh’s fist flies at me, jerking back and out of range is as easy as fucking breathing.

But Darragh is fast, I’ll give him that. He’s not the type to circle his opponent, to learn about them, to slowly try to gain the upper hand. He’s the kind who bursts right out of the gate without a single thought of how he’ll get to where he’s going besides sheer, persistent force. He punches and jabs with astonishing speed, though I have no problem dodging and blocking. For now, anyway.

Unlike Darragh, I don’t mind taking my fucking time. Same as I was willing to bide my time and wait to get my hands on Deirdre, I don’t rush this, either. I want to get this done, but I won’t win if I’m too impatient. So I block, and block, and block again, taking blows against my wrists and forearms and even a couple to the kidney area that take my breath away. But all the while, I’m watching, I’m analyzing. He’s got weaknesses. A chink in his armour. Everybody does. It’s all about patiently waiting to find out what they are.

So that you can get your thumb inside that crack and push until it bleeds.

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