Page 36 of Twisted Vows

Her eyes sweep the estate again, lingering on the dark windows like they’re watching her back.

“So this is my new prison,” she says, voice flat.

I breathe in slowly. Not unexpected, but it lands harder than I want to admit. “It’s a home.”

“For who?” She doesn’t look at me.

The air between us tightens, but I refuse to show it. I straighten, motioning toward the entrance. “Come inside.”

She doesn’t move right away. Then, with a flick of her hair, she falls into step beside me—but not close enough to touch. The space between us mirrors the chasm I created this morning with my note. My overprotectiveness.

I shake off the uncomfortable truth that’s been niggling me relentlessly. What the fuck was I supposed to do?

When I woke up and saw her hands folded beneath her cheek, I almost lost it. She looked so sweet and angelic. Men who want to see me break would easily use her to do it, and that’s not something I will allow.

So yeah, rules. Security protocols. An iron fist of control. Whatever it takes to keep her alive.

We walk beneath the arched entrance as it gives way to the central courtyard. Lanterns flicker among the sculpted hedges, casting warm pools of light across the polished stone paths. The reflecting pool glimmers like black glass, breaking the hard edges of the architecture.

Our new home is a fortress disguised in luxury. “This isn’t just walls and stone,” I say, guiding her forward. My hand hovers near the small of her back, close but not touching. “The estate is secure. No one will get in unless I allow it.”

Ari tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “And what if I want to leave?”

The question is a blade disguised as curiosity. I let it slide past me. “Let me show you the rest.”

We step through the grand double doors, the weight of them muffling the world behind us. The foyer opens wide—a vaulted ceiling with intricate moldings, polished marble stretching out beneath us, the distant glow of chandeliers. Every surface gleams. Every line is sharp.

The staff waits in formation, exactly as I instructed. Pasha stands at the head, imposing in his stillness. The others—housekeeper, chef, gardener—remain perfectly composed. Silent. Efficient.

“This is Pasha.” My voice is steady. “He’s in charge of security here.”

Pasha offers a single nod. Ari’s gaze flicks over him, unimpressed.

“Charming,” she murmurs, barely audible.

I ignore the comment. “The staff will handle anything you need.”

Her eyes scan them with faint amusement. “Do they come with names or just job titles?”

A flicker of irritation rises, but I bury it. “They know their place.”

Her mouth twitches—halfway to a smirk. “I’m sure they do.”

I move on.

Room by room, I guide her through the estate. The formal dining room with its long oak table and panoramic windows. The study, its shelves lined with rare books and old weapons. The drawing room, where the grand piano sits untouched in the corner.

I speak deliberately. Each word chosen to impress upon her the purpose of this place. But she drifts through the rooms like a ghost, her fingertips brushing against the polished surfaces with idle detachment. No comments. No questions.

The silence gnaws at me.

We reach the terrace. The gardens stretch beyond us, perfectly manicured, the distant hills soft against the horizon. The table is set for lunch. Crystal glasses catch the light. The breeze carries the faint scent of lavender.

Will this disarm her? Soften the edges.

It doesn’t.

She sits, carefully folding her hands in her lap, and stares out over the gardens.

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