Page 3 of Forbidden Vows

When he shifts gears, tendons flex in his tanned hands, the two-headed eagle signet ring glinting with each movement.

He’s Bratva royalty.

"Who the FUCK—"

A single look shuts me up.

Just like that. No words. No warning. Just those sharp eyes locking onto mine, cold and commanding, and suddenly my voice dies in my throat.

For the first time in my life—me, Eileen Donovan, who never knows when to shut up—I’m left completely, utterly speechless.

Those deep, wolfish hazel eyes, more green than gold under the dashboard lights, flash with a menacing intelligence. He appears to be in his mid to late forties, the epitome of a silver fox, with every crease around those piercing eyes adding to his lethal allure.

Moonlight caresses the silver threads in his beard, highlighting the stark contrast against his umber skin, making it captivating rather than weathered. As he turns, light dances across the defined angles of his face.

This man isn’t merely distinguished; he’s a predator cloaked in the guise of sophistication.

The engine snarls to life. My kidnapper throws us into reverse, tires screaming. Through the windshield, I see the enforcer lowering his gun slowly—not from mercy, but recognition.

Who the hell is this guy?

"Talk," I demand, voice shaking. "Or I'll dive at the next light."

Hazel eyes flick to mine, wolf-yellow in the dashboard glow. "You'd break that pretty neck before rolling three feet." Moscow velvet over Siberian steel. "Sit still, devochka. Tonight, I'm your guardian devil."

The speedometer kisses 90 as we vanish into Chicago's neon arteries. And I'm trapped with a man who smells like danger and $300-an-ounce cologne.

"Bullshit." My fingers dig into the Porsche's butter-soft leather. "You just kidnapped a Donovan."

His knuckles bleach white on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath tanned skin. "Andrei's men would've put two bullets in your pretty skull and dumped you in Lake Michigan before you could blink."

That voice—smoke and honey with a Russian edge—vibrates through me like the Porsche's purring engine.

A traitorous shiver runs down my spine. "Who the hell are you?" I demand, louder this time.

"On a need-to-know basis." His thumb taps the wheel, a signet ring flashing—ruby-eyed eagle eating its own tail.

"Christ, did they train you at the Bratva Charm School?" I snap. "Or just the School of Cryptic Bullshit?"

The corner of his mouth twitches beneath that perfectly trimmed beard. "You walked into a warzone back there, little bird. And you're still flapping your wings like it's a fucking tea party."

I take him in properly for the first time—that aristocratic nose, the way his hazel eyes shift from moss-green to amber in the dashboard lights. Fine lines fan from his eyes, the kind earned from squinting into Siberian winds rather than laughing at parties. Silver threads glint in his dark waves, catching the light like knife edges.

And God, that scent again—leather, gunpowder, and something expensive beneath it all. My traitorous lungs drink it in.

"What I walked into," I say slowly, "was your Russian friends turning Tommy Benedetto into ground meat." My voice hardens. "A Camorra prince doesn't just get whacked withoutconsequences."

His grip tightens. Just a fraction. Just enough. A dark chuckle. "You do understand the game."

"Enough to know you're not some Good Samaritan." I lean closer, whiskey and adrenaline burning my throat. "So who the fuck are you really?"

Those wolf's eyes flick to me, then back to the road. "Persistent little thing, aren't you?"

"Try 'woman with a working survival instinct.'"

The Porsche accelerates, pressing me into the seat. "Tough blyad," he murmurs, almost approvingly. "You're better off not knowing my name. Unless you enjoy breathing."

"Are you threatening me?"

---