Page 15 of His Ruthless Vow

Her eyes narrow, confusion flickering across her face before she masks it. "Then why am I here?"

"Because I wanted you to be." The simplicity of my answer clearly irritates her. Good. I like the way her eyes flash when she's angry. Our drinks arrive, and I take a slow sip of my scotch, savoring the burn. "How is Griffin?"

The question catches her off guard. Her fingers tense around her glass. "Why do you ask?”

Maybe I shouldn’t push it, but I can’t seem to help myself. "Did he call to explain why he left? Or did he just disappear?" I already know the answer. I have people who track these things for me. But I want to hear it from her.

"I'm sure you already know." She takes a deliberate sip of her martini, refusing to give me the satisfaction.

I lean in closer, my voice dropping. "I do. But I want to hear how it felt to be betrayed by someone you trusted."

Kendra's jaw tightens. "Is that what this is? You brought me here to gloat?"

"Not at all." I can't help the slight smirk that forms. "I'm simply curious about your taste in friends. First Griffin, now me. You seem drawn to dangerous men."

"You're not my friend." She says it with such conviction that I almost laugh.

"No," I agree, watching her over the rim of my glass. "I'm something else entirely."

The music pulses around us, but inside our booth, it's like we exist in our own world. Women at the bar keep glancing our way—at me—with hungry eyes. But I keep my attention fixed on Kendra.

She drinks deeply, eyeing me the whole time. "So I came out for this? To have a drink with you?" Her lips curl to the side. "Too hard for you to find anyone willing to put up with you?"

I shift closer to her though still not touching. "Not at all. If I came alone, those women would be over here in minutes. Having you here keeps them away."

Kendra follows my gaze to where three women in tight dresses are watching our booth. Something flickers across her face—a flash of what looks almost like jealousy before it's gone.

"So I'm a human shield. How flattering." But there's an edge to her voice that wasn't there before.

"A companion," I correct, enjoying the way she bristles. "One who intrigues me more than she should."

And it's true. I wasn't even sure why I made this deal with her in the first place. Griffin's debt was substantial, but nothing I couldn't handle differently. Yet something about Kendra Washington pulls at me. The way she refuses to be intimidated. The sharpness of her mind. The fire that burns behind those eyes.

"Funny," she responds, turning to face me fully. "I don't find you intriguing at all."

It's a lie. I can see it in the way her eyes linger on my mouth, the slight flush across her cheekbones that has nothing to do with alcohol.

"Liar," I say softly, watching her reaction. "But that's okay. We have plenty of time for you to admit the truth."

And I'm going to enjoy forcing it out of her.

9

KENDRA

Islam my phone down with more force than necessary, staring at Enzo's text message like it might spontaneously combust.

Dinner tonight. 8 PM. Wear something nice. I'll send a car.

It's the fourth summons this week. No please. No explanation. Just another imperial command expecting immediate obedience. I consider throwing the phone across my living room but reconsider—I've already replaced two this year, and Apple doesn't need more of my money.

The rational part of my brain reminds me I agreed to this arrangement. I made a deal with the devil himself to save Griffin's worthless ass, only to discover he'd already skipped town. Now I'm left holding the bag—or more accurately, holding whatever Enzo Rossi decides to hand me.

When I agreed to be "at his call," I'd braced myself for something sinister. Sexual favors. Illegal activities. Using my marketing connections for something that would get me fired or worse. Instead, I've gotten... dinner dates. Club appearances. Silent companionship while he conducts mysterious business meetings that seem to consist mostly of men in expensive suits nodding reverently in his direction. I don't even get why I'm there most of the time.

I pull open my closet door with enough force to rattle the hinges. What does "something nice" even mean to a man whose watch probably costs more than my car? I finger through dresses, each one seemingly inadequate for whatever game he's playing.

The car arrives precisely at 7:30. Of course it does. The driver doesn't speak beyond confirming my identity, and I don't offer conversation. Twenty minutes later, we pull up to Antica, the kind of Italian restaurant where the menu doesn't list prices and the wine list requires its own leather-bound volume.

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