Page 47 of Twisted Vows

She blinks, caught off guard by the shift in my tone. “Your moods are impossible to keep up with.”

“So I’ve been told,” I reply, smirking.

Her lips twitch, and for a moment, I think she might actually smile. It doesn’t happen, but the tension between us eases just enough to breathe.

I lead her into the dimly lit alcove beside the kitchen, noticing the table is set simply but thoughtfully. The bottle of wine she chose sits unopened, its deep red label a quiet testament to the thought she’s put into the meal.

We sit across from each other, the air between us still heavy but no longer hostile. She serves us and then picks at her food, her gaze flicking toward me every so often. I keep my movements measured, deliberate, refusing to be the first to break the silence.

I watch her, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way her fingers grip the fork just a little too tightly. She’s not angry anymore—at least, not entirely.

“I should apologize,” she says suddenly, her voice low, hesitant.

I set my fork down, leaning back slightly. “But you won’t.”

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp but conflicted. “No,” she admits. “I won’t.”

I let a small smile tug at the corner of my lips, just enough to let her know I’m not offended. “Fair enough.”

The silence stretches again, but this time, it feels different. Not resolved, but… manageable.

The faint echo of the door opening cuts through the quiet, and I set my wineglass down with a measured sigh. I don’t need to check the time to know it’s late—too late for anything good. Footsteps follow, heavy and deliberate, and then Nikolai steps into the room, followed by Anton.

Nikolai’s energy fills the room like a storm cloud—tense, charged, and faintly unsteady. His hand clenches the back of the chair in front of him, his knuckles whitening before he releases it, only to repeat the motion seconds later. He avoids my eyes, his focus darting between the wine bottle on the table and some distant point over my shoulder. Anton, on the other hand, is his usual calm self, his expression betraying nothing but quiet vigilance.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Nikolai says, his tone clipped, rehearsed.

“Interruptions are only irritating when they’re unnecessary,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. My gaze fixes on Nikolai, sharp and unwavering. “Is this one?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, the slight scrape of his shoes against the hardwood grating on my nerves. “The Cartel is handled,” he says finally. “For now.”

I arch an eyebrow, my fingers drumming once against the edge of the table. “For now isn’t good enough.”

Anton glances at Nikolai, his brow lifting ever so slightly, and I can see it—he’s noticed, too. The tension, the fidgeting, the cracks in Nikolai’s usually solid composure. My instincts stir, whispers of suspicion creeping into my mind.

Ari, of course, notices it as well. She leans back, her head tilting just enough to convey both curiosity and challenge. “You seem jumpy for someone who’s won,” she says, her tone light but cutting.

Nikolai’s jaw tightens, his eyes finally flicking to her. “The Cartel is disorganized and not a threat.”

It’s the way he says it—too quickly, too polished. Like he’s memorized the line and repeated it in his head a dozen times before walking into this room. “Nikolai,” I say, my tone flat but carrying the weight of authority. “Stay close. I’ll want an update in the morning.”

His nod is curt, almost robotic, and he doesn’t so much leave the room as bolt from it. His footsteps echo down the hall, fading quickly, leaving Anton standing by the doorway with his usual composed presence. He catches my eye, his expression unreadable but deliberate. It’s a silent message, one I don’t need spelled out:We’ll talk later.

I give him the barest of nods, dismissing him. He follows Nikolai, his stride slow and steady, the exact opposite of the man he’s trailing.

Ari’s voice slices through the quiet. “That wasn’t suspicious at all.”

I glance at her, arching an eyebrow. “You think everything is suspicious.”

“Only when people act guilty,” she shoots back, not missing a beat. Her gaze is locked on me, unflinching, as if daring me to deny what we both just witnessed.

I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I take another sip of my wine, letting the weight of her words settle. She’s not wrong,and that’s what irritates me most. Nikolai’s behavior isn’t just suspicious—it’s dangerous.

I stand and collect our plates, carrying them to the sideboard. The movement isn’t rushed, and I can feel her eyes on me the entire time. She doesn’t say anything, but when I glance at her over my shoulder, there’s a flicker of surprise in her expression.

I reach for the wine bottle, refilling our glasses before returning to the table. I hand her the glass, watching as her fingers curl around the stem, her lips curving—not quite a smile, but close enough.

I watch her for a moment, the light catching in her dark hair, the delicate slope of her neck. Her shoulders are less rigid, and I realize how much I like her this way. The music shifts in the background, something slow and sultry weaving through the air.

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