Page 2 of Brutal Vows

He stands there, still as death, his towering form cloaked in black. The ski mask obscures his face, revealing only a sharp, furrowed brow and a pair of dark, piercing eyes.

A single word charges through my mind.

Run.

I spin on my heel, ignoring the wave of dizziness that nearly takes me down. My body moves on raw instinct, lungs burning as I push toward the master bedroom’s patio door.

Thunderous footsteps hammer against the wooden floor, gaining on me.

A silent, vicious predator.

Please, God, I swear I’ll be a better Italian Catholic if you get me out of this.

The door slams shut behind me, and I twist the lock before lunging for the patio. My frozen fingers fumble with the handle. I yank.

It doesn’t budge.

Panic flares, wild and consuming. My eyes dart over the glass door, searching for an answer—why won’t it open?

And then I see it.

A small crank wedged in the tracks. Placed deliberately. A trap. The floorboards groan behind me.

Fuck this.

I snatch the rocking chair from the corner and hurl it at the patio doors. Glass shatters. The cold rushes in, biting at my skin. But I don’t hesitate. Not even as the bedroom door bursts open behind me. Not even as the man growls out a sharp, “Motherfu?—”

I’m already moving, launching myself through the broken frame, my feet landing in the deep snow beyond.

The cold is immediate, agonizing, cutting like shards of ice through my skin. But I don’t stop.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

A brutal force slams into me from behind, tackling me to the ground.

The world spins. The snow swallows me.

I scream, thrashing, fighting with everything I have left, but it’s useless. The weight pressing down on me is absolute. Overpowering.

My wrists are wrenched above my head, locked in a bruising grip. A hard body cages me in, legs pinning mine, his breath a sharp contrast to the frozen air.

His voice is low, guttural.Rough.

“Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

That voice.

My pulse stutters. Something about it strikes a nerve. Scratches at a memory I can’t quite reach.

“Let me go,” I rasp, voice trembling, betraying my weakness. He doesn’t.

He just stays there, pressing me into the snow, waiting. For what? For me to burn out? To stop fighting?

My breath comes in shuddering pants, my limbs growing heavier with every passing second.

My body betrays me. Gives in. The last thing I hear before the darkness claims me is his voice—low, cold, and laced with something too sharp to be concern.

“Fucking hell. This isn’t what I need.”

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