Page 16 of His Ruthless Vow

Enzo is already seated when I arrive, his broad frame dominating a corner table that gives him full view of the restaurant. He doesn't stand when I approach—why would he? That would suggest manners, consideration, something human underneath all that calculated control. Instead, his steel-gray eyes track my approach, taking in the midnight blue dress I'd finally settled on, neither approving nor disapproving.

"You're punctual," he says, as if bestowing some great compliment.

"You didn't give me much choice." I slide into my seat, refusing the help of the hovering waiter. "Your text was typically informative."

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth might be amusement. "I find brevity effective."

"Is that what you call it?"

I watch as he swirls amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. His tattooed forearms peek out beneath rolled sleeves, intricate designs disappearing under expensive fabric, telling stories I'm not allowed to read. He's freshly shaved, the sharp line of his jaw softened only by the shadow that's already threatening to return.

"You seem tense tonight, Kendra." He takes a measured sip of his drink. "Problem at work?"

"My problem is sitting across from me." I reach for the wine already poured at my place setting. "Is this what I signed up for? Being your dinner companion?"

Enzo leans forward slightly, and the subtle shift commands my attention. He doesn't need to raise his voice or slam his hand; the slight tilt of his head is enough.

"Are you complaining?" He arches one perfect eyebrow, challenge evident in every line of his face.

I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. "I'm questioning the allocation of resources. If all you wanted was someone to watch you eat pasta, you could've hired an actual escort. Probably would've been cheaper than forgiving Griffin's debt."

Something dangerous flashes behind those steel-gray eyes. I've poked the bear, and part of me—the reckless, self-destructive part—relishes it.

His hand moves across the table, not quite touching mine but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Maybe I enjoy your particular brand of company."

The tension crackles between us, electric and unbearable. I should pull away, put distance between us. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly forward, drawn into his orbit despite every warning bell clanging in my head.

"Lucky me," I whisper, hating how my voice betrays me, dropping to a register that's more invitation than rebuke.

His fingers brush against mine as he reaches for his glass again, the contact brief but deliberate. My skin burns where he touched it.

I'm slipping. God help me, I'm slipping.

The rest of dinner is...complicated. Enzo orders for both of us—something I'd normally fight anyone else over—but his selections are impeccable. Conversations flow more naturally after our initial clash, though each word feels like we are stepping through a minefield, both searching for weak points in the other's armor.

Now, confined in the plush leather backseat of his car since he insisted on taking me home, I'm acutely aware of his presence. He sits with casual dominance, one arm stretched along the seat back, not quite touching me but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him. His cologne—something expensive and subtle—fills the enclosed space, mingling with the lingering scent of the grappa he'd insisted I try.

"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" His voice breaks the silence, low and smooth.

I glance sideways, catching the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "The food was excellent. The company remains under evaluation."

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Always ready with that sharp tongue."

"Would you prefer I simper and fawn like everyone else in your orbit?" I turn my head fully to face him. "Sorry to disappoint, but that's not part of our arrangement."

"No," his eyes darken as they trace the contours of my face, "it's not."

The car pulls to a stop outside my building, but before I can reach for the door, Enzo is out and circling around, opening it for me.

"I can manage," I say, but he extends his hand anyway.

"Humor me."

I hesitate before placing my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and sure, and he helps me from the car with surprising gentleness. When I expect him to release me, he doesn't, instead placing his other hand at the small of my back.

"I'll walk you up."

It's not a question. With anyone else, I'd resist on principle, but something about the quiet certainty in his voice makes argument seem childish.

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