Page 40 of Reckless Vow

“Fuck you. Don’t call me again.” I hang up.

While I recognize he’s an ocean away, the memories of his tantrums rush through me and my body shakes despite my best efforts.

Suddenly feeling the need for some companionship, I dash out of the room and knock on Baldo’s door.

I have a lot of my mental health issues under control, but I can’t call my therapist every time something spooks me.

Besides, it’s the middle of the night in England. It didn’t stop Dylan, apparently.

When Baldo doesn’t answer, I go downstairs. Light is coming from the library, so I veer that way.

I pause at the sight of Baldo seated at the table. He looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine, but what’s new? Just seeing him calms me.

When we dance around each other in this house, it’s easy to avoid looking at him. Lit only by the dim light of the desk lamp, his face looks relaxed.

His features, usually set in granite, are softer. Which is at odds with the sleek, metallic sheen of the gun he’s cleaning.

The image is oddly captivating. I’ve written scenes like this countless times, but witnessing it in reality sends a shiver of intrigue down my spine. Especially when the main protagonist is Baldo.

“What are you doing?”

We’ve barely spoken since our wedding, and this is what I ask? Way to go, Brook.

His eyes lift to look at me. It’s eerie as his whole body barely moves. “Cleaning my gun.” He returns his focus to his activity.

I cross the large library, my feet sinking into the soft carpet, and stop across from him.

“What’s that, a Glock 19?” My curiosity is piqued.

Baldo looks up, his eyebrows raising. “Yes, it is. I didn’t take you for a gun enthusiast.”

I shrug, moving closer to get a better look. “Just interested.”

He chuckles, laying out the disassembled parts neatly on the cloth. “Know much about Glocks?”

“Favored for their reliability, they are lightweight, compact, with a good magazine capacity. It’s the preferred choice for many law enforcement agencies.” I recite the facts as if reading from a research folder.

“Correct.”

I move around and watch him clean the barrel over his shoulder. “It’s striker-fired, which is part of its reliability. No hammer to worry about.”

He smirks and assembles the gun. Picking up the barrel, he holds it toward me. “Ever held one?”

I shake my head.

His tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious. “Feel the weight.”

He stands up, that distinct musk of him invading all my senses. I don’t look at the gun between us, I stare into his eyes.

If I’m honest, I’m desperately seeking any sign that he’s as affected by me as I am by him.

But he maintains a perfect poker face, bar the smirk challenging me to hold the gun. Like it’s some sort of test. Or a metaphor. Here I am overthinking again.

Though it’s hard to scramble a decent thought together when all my energy is consumed by his closeness. By my ragged breathing. By my pounding heartbeat. By my need to squeeze my thighs together.

“Why do you own a gun?” The words come out broken, struggling to get past the lump in my throat.

Why am I this affected by him? Why isn’t he affected at all? I guess I really am only a sibling to him.

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