Page 49 of Sinner's Vows

“You know if I could kill him for you again and again, I’d do so,” I say, leaning in to stare into her eyes, to make sure she understands I’m serious. “I promise you nobody will ever touch you like that again. Do you understand, Ariana?”

It’s a sinner’s vow, but it’s a vow I make with everything in me and one I’ll stick to, whatever it takes.

She blushes, and it drives my pulse wild. Has nobody ever stood up for this woman?

“Okay.”

And now, I’m fucking pissed Stephano did such a good job. Hacking off that maniac’s hands. I could have done so much more, could have gone for days and let Franco suffer in a way even his wildest imagination could never have conjured up. He is dead, but I will do the same to any man who even so much as glances at Ariana in a way that makes me wonder what his intentions are. Yes, these are brotherly feelings. Good. They’re the best type of brotherly feelings.

I hesitate to ask the question, but I need to know. “What did you do next, sweetheart?”

She wipes at her face and then hitches a shoulder. “What every woman in my position would do? The next day, I stole ten thousand euros from him and ran away.”

It’s her go-to, like she’s proven twice in a row now, ingrained in her earliest experiences. Everything she does makes sense now.

I shoot her a woeful smile. “Of course you did.”

26

ARIANA

I’m drained now with everything that just spilled out. And it isn’t only the things I told him—it’s the fear that had me in a chokehold once I realized he wasn’t asleep at all…and what he would do to me next.

Calling me a thief. Nothing could stop my tailspin then, not with what happened the last time someone called me that.

Even now, chills chase over my back with the memories of that night with Franco bubbling up to the surface, from where they’d been simmering for years. I’ve been a fool to think I’d dealt with that night. I hadn’t. I’d merely cut it out like gangrene, forcing myself to never think about it, and then expecting the flesh wound to just heal by itself without proper care.

For years, I’ve been functioning on autopilot, until Franco strolled back into my life. Somehow, I managed to get through everything he had in store for me these past weeks, but now that he’s dead…it’s as if I’m finally free and allowed to deal with what he’s done to me. Have I really been watching my back for twelve long years, waiting for him to walk back into my room, just as he had that night?

I have. I don’t know how to deal with what has happened now. I can’t do it alone. The mere idea of finding myself amongst the rubble of that night makes my knees want to cave in.

I’m cold with the memories, but Dominic’s hands are warm and firm where he’s keeping me upright.

Dominic.

What is it with this man? This time, I didn’t talk because I needed to give him something to latch on to like I did over dinner, giving him random safe facts of my childhood. First it was the fear of what he’d do to me now that I’d stolen his gun. But then… I couldn’t hold back, and for the first time since that night Franco came to take as it pleased him, I’ve told someone the truth.

Not just anybody, buthim.

Dominic has me. He knows my biggest shame, my darkest secret. I bet he can smell my deepest fear: to go through something like that again.

But he vowed to never hurt me. He’ll kill Franco again and again if he could. My knees buckle, and he pulls me to him, into the circle of his arms where I felt safe from the first time he held me. I press my whole face into his chest and inhale his scent through my quiet tears. Freshly laundered shirt, warm male underneath, a hint of cologne mixed with him. It’s intoxicating.

“Come, sweetheart,” he says softly as he supports me to the door. “You’re exhausted.”

As soon as he’s opened the door, he sweeps me up in his arms and cradles me close as if I’m a treasure, not a woman broken forever by one brute’s actions. Instead of resisting him as I should, I close my eyes and sink into his embrace, my hand lying limply against his chest where I can feel his heartbeats, solid, firm, and without the least bit of exertion at carrying me down the corridor.

As we walk through the kitchen, he passes the counter with the bags of clothes.

“The things Portia dropped off—” I whisper, wanting to reach for it.

“The clothes aren’t washed, and coming from the store, you can’t wear it without washing it first. I’ll have something for you to sleep in.”

His tone tells me not to even think about giving him grief, and I let it go.

It’s only when he lowers me to my feet that I realize we’re in his room, and not in mine. “I?—”

“It’s okay. This bathroom has a bath.” He leads me into the adjacent bathroom which looks palatial in comparison to the small add-on in my room. He leans into the tub, closes the plug, opens the faucet, and tests the temperature to make sure it’s just right.

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