Page 53 of Twisted Vows

“Morning,” she whispers, a faint smile pulling at her lips. There’s a playfulness there, but something else too. It’s in the way her eyes search mine, like she’s trying to figure me out.

“Morning,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. There’s an urge to say more, to let her know that this—whatever this is—is new for me. But the words stick.

“Didn’t take you for a morning person,” she teases, her voice still soft, but there’s a spark in her eyes now.

I smirk, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. “Not usually. But I’m making exceptions.”

Her smile widens, and for a brief moment, everything feels simple. The tension from the last couple of weeks has faded. Leaving us in this weird space that neither of us knows how to navigate.

I should create some distance.

Instead, I move closer, letting the warmth of her skin chase away the long ass to-do list I need to tackle.

The comfortable silence is broken when I feel Ari roll on her side and prop her head on one hand. “Am I gonna like whatever is about to come out of your mouth?”

“Probably not.” She smiles like a fallen angel. “But we should probably get to know each other a bit, don’t you think?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I run my hand up the center of her body. “I think we know a lot about one another.” There’s a lightness in my voice, but I know where this is going.

“Oh, I know plenty about your... skills. But I’m talking about something a bit deeper.”

Of course she is. I lean back against the pillows, crossing my arms over my chest, and give her a look. “What exactly do you want to know?”

She shrugs, but there’s a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Tell me something real. Something that matters.”

Real. That word carries a weight I’m not sure I want to unpack. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me, a quiet demand that pushes me to respond. My interactions with women have always been transactional. But Ari is my wife. And while this isn’t a love match, making an effort to know the person who sleeps beside me is probably not a bad idea.

I let out a slow breath, my gaze shifting to the window for a moment before returning to her. “Alright. You want to knowsomething real?” I pause, searching for the right place to start. “I’ve never liked being the spare heir to the Volkov Syndicate.”

Her expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “Go on.”

“Just like the Cosa Nostra, the firstborn gets the crown. Alexey was groomed for it from the moment he took his first step. And I was taught to… make sure everything runs smoothly. I don’t get the throne, but I sure as hell better keep it standing.”

There’s a pause, and I wait for her to say something, to ask the question that’s probably on her mind.

Ari tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Does that bother you?”

There it is. The question I knew was coming. I let out a short, humorless laugh. “It used to. Maybe it still does, sometimes.” I glance down at my hands, the fingers that have done more damage than I care to remember. “I love my brother. Respect him. But being ‘spare’ is a shit job. It’s... frustrating. Knowing that no matter what I do, no matter how much blood I shed, it’ll never be enough to take the top spot.”

Her gaze softens, and I see a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She’s smart—she knows the weight of family expectations, the pressure of living up to something beyond yourself.

“So you’re the one doing all the dirty work while he... what, sits in an office and pulls the strings?” she asks, her tone laced with curiosity but also something like sympathy.

I consider the question and shake my head. “He gets his hands plenty dirty and never asks for something he won’t happily do himself. I pause, trying to find the words. “Alexey is the strategist, the visionary. And he’s good at it. I’m the madman. The one who will go to any length to make it come true.” My voice tightens, the resentment creeping back. “I’m good at what I do. But I’m always in the shadows. Always second.”

There’s a silence that follows, but it’s not uncomfortable. Ari doesn’t rush to fill it with empty words or false assurances. She just listens, and for some reason, that makes it easier to keep talking.

“I’ve accepted my role,” I say, almost more to myself than to her. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what it would be like to be the one in charge. To have something that’s mine.”

She shifts closer, her hand brushing against my arm. “And what would that be?”

I glance at her, caught off guard by the question.What would that be?

It’s not a question I let myself think about often. Being second-in-command doesn’t leave room for fantasies. I’ve always been practical—focused on what’s in front of me, on the tasks I need to handle. But now, with Ari looking at me like she expects an answer, it feels different. Her hand rests on my chest, and I can feel the weight of her attention, like she’s trying to pull something out of me that I haven’t been willing to admit.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Maybe a place where I’m not just carrying out orders. A place where I can make decisions, lead... build something that’s mine.”

I pause, then run a hand through my hair, frustrated. This isn’t a conversation I ever expected to have. It feels too... open. But it’s also strangely easy to talk to her like this. I don’t know if it’s the quiet of the room, the way she listens without interrupting, or the fact that, for once, I don’t feel judged.

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