Page 13 of Vow of Vengeance

I hold her gaze. “You don’t get to make demands.”

“Hear me out.” And she looks up at me with those big, blue eyes.

She’s too fucking cute for her own good. I want to spank her ass, but instead, I relent. “Alright, but make it quick.”

“I’ll go with you,” she offers. “And I’ll make it easy for you. I won’t fight you.”

“And in exchange?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath, exhaling a string of words. “Tonight, my family comes home safe and sound. And your men will take Carter back to his house—alive and well. And leave him alone.”

“That’s two demands,” I say. “When you don’t get to make any. I’m taking you with me—fight or not.”

“It’s my family…” Her lip quivers, and it’s my undoing.

“Your family will be safe,” I tell her. “I can’t say that others who have attempted to steal from the Bachmans have been granted the same fate.”

“Okay. Good.” She exhales a shaky breath. “What about Carter?”

The boy I’d like to kill.

I slide a hand in my pants pocket. “I was looking forward to giving my men orders to rough him up after what he put you through.”

Her brows shoot up. “What did you hear?”

“I heard enough.” My fingers curl into a fist inside my pocket. “He’s lucky I’m letting him live.”

“Letting him live…” She repeats back my words, her eyes filling with fear as she accepts the kind of man I am.

“I will let him live,” I say. “For now. If he lays one finger on you again?—"

Not wanting to hear more, she cuts me off. “Okay, I get it. I’ll do as you say for tonight.”

“And after that?” I ask.

A sudden surge of bravery takes over. “We’ll see how I feel.” She lifts the duffle bag strap to hang it over her shoulder.

“If you want to risk it.” I take the bag’s strap from her hands before it touches her shoulder, pulling it over my own. I smooth my hand over her denim-covered curves, pulling her tight against me. Our bodies press against one another, my heat transferring with hers. “It’s your ass on the line.”

She blushes, knowing I’m speaking literally. Pulling away from my grasp, she leans down, reaching for a backpack on the floor. I grab the bag before she can lift it and toss it over my other shoulder.

Nodding at the bed, I say, “Get your quilt. You’ll want something from home.”

She goes to argue. “I don’t want to take anything else?—”

“Our deal?” I say.

“Fine.” She grabs the rumpled quilt from the bed, adding a pillow for good measure.

I reach out to take them. “I’ll carry those for you.”

“I’ve got it. I can carry them myself.” She starts to brush by me.

I gently grab her elbow, giving her a soft squeeze in reminder. “Ophelia.”

She hands me the bedding without another word.

She’s learning quickly. Kind of.

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