Page 50 of His Ruthless Vow

The tension between us remains electric, but it's shifted into something I can't quite name. Less like a game of power and more like something waiting to ignite.

She takes a sip of wine, her dark eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass. "You're quiet tonight."

I lean back, watching her. The tattoos along my arms seem to pulse beneath my rolled-up sleeves. "Got a lot on my mind."

We eat, we talk. She tells me about a client who's driving her marketing team insane with constant revisions. I share a heavily edited version of trouble with a supplier. It all feels so goddamn normal that I almost forget who we are, what brought us together.

Almost.

Halfway through our second glass of wine, I make my decision. The words have been sitting on my tongue all evening, heavy like lead.

"The deal's done," I say, watching her carefully, my expression revealing nothing while my heart hammers against my ribs.

Kendra stills, her glass suspended halfway to those lips that have haunted my thoughts for weeks. "What?"

I lean back in my chair, swirling the dark liquid in my glass with deliberate casualness that masks the storm beneath. "You're free. No more calling on you, no more favors. It's over. You paid your debt."

I expect relief, perhaps gratitude. What I don't expect is the way she freezes, those sharp eyes suddenly unreadable. She doesn't answer right away, and the silence stretches between us like a live wire.

She could walk out my door, could throw my mercy back in my face with some cutting remark—she has options. Instead, she tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that makes me feel stripped bare despite the clothes between us.

"Why?" The single word contains multitudes.

I smirk, masking vulnerability with confidence, a skill I perfected long before I ever met her. "Thought I'd give you the chance to run."

The words hang in the air, charged with everything unsaid between us. Something flickers in her expression—understanding, perhaps. Or recognition.

Kendra sets down her glass, standing slowly. For a moment, tension coils in my gut, the certainty that she'll walk away washing over me like ice water. Instead, she steps around the table with deliberate movements, her gaze never leaving mine.

When she moves onto my lap, straddling me with practiced ease, my hands instinctively find her hips—not controlling, just steadying. Her weight grounds me, the heat of her body against mine a tangible reminder that this is real.

Her hands slide up my chest, nails grazing skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, leaving fire in their wake. I force myself to remain still, to not reveal how her simplest touch affects me.

"And if I don't want to run?" Her voice is low, challenging.

I exhale sharply, fingers tightening on her hips, feeling the curve of her beneath my palms. My control slips, just for a moment, revealing the hunger I've been fighting.

"Then you stay," I murmur, voice rough with everything I won't say.

When she kisses me, it's different from all the times before. No games, no power plays, no debt between us—just Kendra choosing this. Choosing me. And as we lose ourselves in each other, my hands mapping the familiar terrain of her body while her fingers thread through my hair, I know this has become something neither of us planned for.

Because now, there's nothing holding her here except her own choice.

30

ENZO

Kendra’s already left for work and I'm still reeling from the shift in our relationship after she stayed over again when my phone buzzes—not the casual vibration of a text, but the insistent rhythm of a call. Kendra's warmth still lingers on my skin as I check the screen, something uncomfortable settling in my chest when I see Rome's name flashing up at me.

Rome doesn't call unless it's important. More significantly, Rome doesn't call at this hour unless something's wrong.

I press the phone to my ear, listening to his rapid breathing before he even speaks. "Boss, we need to meet. Now."

"What happened?" My voice drops to that dangerous register that usually makes my men stand straighter.

"Can't say over the phone. It's urgent." There's something in his voice—tension, fear maybe—that sets my instincts on high alert. "The old Bianchi warehouse on 47th."

The location alone sends warning signals flaring through my system. Abandoned. Isolated. Perfect for an ambush.

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