Page 22 of Impure Vows

"Just... promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise."

We hang up, and I let the phone drop to my side. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. The thought of stepping outside, of seeing another package, another threat—it paralyzes me. I curl up on the bed, trying to force my eyes shut, but sleep remains elusive.

Every creak, every rustle outside the door sends my heart racing again. I still can't shake the feeling of being watched, hunted. My mind races with possibilities, none of them good.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, and I tense, holding my breath. The steps pass by, fading into the distance. I exhale, my body trembling.

This isn't sustainable. I know that. But what choice do I have? I glance at the door, half-expecting it to burst open. It stays shut, for now.

I close my eyes, desperate for just a moment of calm. The sun continues to stream through the curtains, mocking my futile attempt at finding darkness, at finding peace.

A knock sounds on the door, making my body jolt roughly. My breath catches in my chest, and my heart beats so hardagainst my ribs I can almost hear it. Fuck. I’m terrified, but still, with a groan, I force myself to open the door.

My brows knit together as my eyes land on another package. I grab it, giving a quick glance around before slipping back into the shitty hotel room and locking the door.

"What the hell now?" I mutter, staring at the plain white box as if it might bite me. My fingers tremble as I rip it open. Inside, there’s a sleek black dress, elegant and way out of my league. No note this time. Just the dress.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" I ask the empty room.

I fling the dress onto the bed and start pacing. My thoughts race, colliding with each other. He's found me again. Of course, he has. He’s probably been watching me the entire time, enjoying my futile attempts to escape.

The dress is admittedly gorgeous. It probably costs more than I'll ever see in my lifetime. The thought actually disgusts me a bit, the way this man is just throwing money at me without a care in the world. I let out a bitter laugh, running my fingers over the silky fabric.

"Great," I mutter to myself. "A designer dress for my inevitable funeral."

I stare at the dress lying on the bed, a mix of revulsion and curiosity gnawing at me. The silky fabric gleams under the dim light, almost daring me to touch it.

"You're insane, Aliyah," I mutter to myself, but the curiosity is relentless. Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip off my clothes, my heart pounding with each movement. The air is cool against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I hold the dress up, hesitating for a moment, then pull it over my head.

The fabric clings to me, molding to every curve, every line of my body. It stops below mid-thigh, almost brushing my knees, suggestive but not overtly scandalous. I catch a glimpse of myselfin the cracked mirror across the room. The dress looks like it was made for me. And damn it, it feels good. Too good.

"Shit," I whisper, running my hands over the material. It’s soft, luxurious, a stark contrast to the rough, worn clothes I’ve been living in.

I rip the dress off, the fabric almost tearing as I yank it over my head. Disgust rolls through me like a tidal wave. What the hell is wrong with me? Letting a piece of clothing—no matter how luxurious—seduce me into a moment of weakness. My body protests, missing the caress of the expensive material. My chest heaves, and I fling the dress across the room, watching it land in a crumpled heap.

"Goddammit," I mutter, pacing the small room. I feel exposed, like his eyes are on me, even now. Is he watching? Did he see my resolve falter?

I whirl around, scanning every corner, every shadow. The feeling of being watched intensifies. I throw my clothes back on and go to the window, yanking the curtain aside, half-expecting to see his dark silhouette staring back at me.

But there's nothing. Just the usual hustle of the city below.

"Where the hell are you?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "Are you out there, enjoying this?"

I drop the curtain and slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold floor. My hands tremble as I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to steady my breath. This man has turned my life into a living nightmare. And he’s not even here. He doesn’t need to be. His presence, his power, it’s all around me, suffocating me.

"Think, Aliyah," I tell myself, my voice a harsh whisper. "You can’t let him win."

I stand up, my legs shaky but determined. I need to get out of here, need to find a way to disappear. But how? He’s always one step ahead, always watching.

I grab my bag and start shoving clothes into it. No time to be neat. I move quickly with a sense of urgency that makes my hands shake. Each item lands haphazardly, but I don't care. I just need to get out. As I reach for the last shirt, my eyes drift to the black dress lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. I hesitate, biting my lip.

"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter to myself, kneeling down to pick it up. The fabric is so damn smooth and luxurious against my fingers, and a pang of guilt twists in my stomach. This dress is a gift, a twisted one, but still.

"You're taking something from him," I whisper, half to myself, half to the dress. "Isn't that what he wants?"

I berate myself silently. This isn't a normal gift. It's a declaration, a violation. But something about leaving it behind feels wrong, like admitting defeat. I shove it into the bag, zipping it up with more force than necessary.

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