Page 2 of Forbidden Dark Vows

You know how some moms say there’s no point lying to them because they’ll always catch you out? That’s my mom. Celia Jackson. Lie detector extraordinaire. I swear it must’ve been her party piece when she was younger.

She places her hands on my shoulders, turns me around so that I’m facing the rink, and whispers in my ear, “Go catch yourself a Russo, sweetheart.”

My dad used to take me fishing when I was a little girl when he still had time to spend doing family stuff. I never caught a fish because I couldn’t sit still for more than a couple of minutes. I couldn’t keep quiet either.

But more importantly, I never saw the point of trying to catch a fish using maggots as bait. It felt dishonest; those poor fish in the river never knew that the tasty maggot might be their final meal. They never knew that the meal came with a lethal hook, one that would sink inside their gullet and reel them in before they even knew what hit them.

This feels the same.

There’s Alessandro Russo gliding around the ice without a care in the world in his black leather coat and shiny gold scarf. And here’s me: the maggot.

The guy can skate, I’ll give him that. He turns around so that he’s skating backwards, legs crossed, body all sleek angles and swarthy good looks, grinning at his friends before he executes a simple toe loop and whizzes off, a trail of teenaged girls in his wake.

Ugh!

Of course, he’s lapping up the attention like the cat that got the cream. He glides towards a couple of teenaged girls who are watching him from the edge of the rink, heads almost touching so that they can whisper about how hot he is, and hisses to a halt in the middle of them. I watch their cheeks turn pink as he offers them a hand each and leads them towards the middle of the ice where everyone will be able to watch the performance.

I don’t even know how I’m supposed to get close to him.

A glance at my mom, and she raises her perfectly groomed eyebrows with a nod in the actor’s direction.

Deep breath. I do a few laps of the rink, practicing my spins and salchows in time to the music and lose myself to the Friday-nightatmosphere and the chill on my face. When I’m skating, I can forget everything else and pretend that I’m an ice princess, the way I used to do when I was younger.

The crowd around Alessandro Russo grows. I can still see his head above the girls trying to smother him with their autograph requests and their eager smiles, but he’s obviously basking in their adoration like a lizard in the sunshine.

I skate away from my mom and stop at the edge of the rink, bending to fasten the lace of my left boot which has come undone. As I do, someone knees me in the side and performs a somersault over the top of me, landing on their back on the ice like an upturned beetle. I hear the whump of air whooshing from their lungs and flinch.

It sounded like it hurt. A lot.

“Are you alright?” I move closer and offer the guy a hand, and he takes it with an embarrassed smile. At least he isn’t trying to fool me that he did it on purpose.

His hand is warm through his woolen glove, and his grip is firm, although he hauls himself upright and puts no pressure on me to help him.

He has a kind face, that’s my first thought. My second thought is that his eyes are the color of the sea on a clear day in fall. Pumpkins pop into my head. Fiery orange leaves, steaming coffee, and log fires.

“Sore,” he says, “but I guess that’ll teach me to watch where I’m going next time.” His gaze drifts towards the actor in the middle of the rink like a candy store owner handing out free sweeties.

“It’s what happens when you choose to come skating on the same evening as someone famous.” I shrug. “You should come midweek. You can practice falling elegantly as much as you like.”

He smiles, and his whole face lights up. “Is that what you do?” Heat floods his cheeks. “I mean, not that I’m suggesting you can’t skate. I’ve been watching you. Not like that, not in a pervy kind of way, just, well… You’re good.”

I can’t help laughing. “My mom made sure I could skate. She said no one wants to be seen flat on their back with their legs up in the air, at least, not when they’re wearing skates. She said if I didn’t learn, there was always the possibility that someone else’s blades would slice my fingers clean off.”

He blinks, those cool blue eyes growing even wider. This man doesn’t need an extra coat of mascara, that’s for sure. “She said that?”

“My mom’s full of life’s important lessons.”

He smiles again, his expression fading rapidly as his skates slide out from under him… While he’s standing still.

I offer him another hand, only this time, when he grabs it, I can’t help laughing. “On second thought, maybe you should stick to walking, or swimming. Although there’s always drowning…”

He’s laughing though. Which is a bonus. My mom always says I should try reining in the sarcastic humor when I’m in company because not everyone understands or appreciates it.

“Harry Weiss.” He shakes my hand.

“Ruby Jackson.”

“Do you want to?—”

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