Page 41 of His Ruthless Vow

"I think I already made it clear that I chose you," she answers, and that threatens to undo me.

Steel-gray meets deep brown as I search her face for any sign of deception. There is none—only that same fierce determination I've come to expect from her. The same fire that drew me to her in the first place.

"Chose me," I echo, the words rough in my throat. Not belonged to me. Not submitted to me. Chose me. The distinction matters, though I'd never admit how much.

Instead, it cracks through me, gripping me, and I know that she just shattered the last of my control.

25

KENDRA

The moment Enzo's mouth crashes against mine, I know there's no coming back from this. I think I knew it the second my stomach dropped at the idea of no longer being tied to him. He asked if I wanted out, and I should have said yes. Instead, I chose him.

The tension between us shatters into something raw and consuming, something that's been waiting to explode since the first time I saw him across the room at Skye's boutique. All those loaded glances, careful distances kept, and barbed comments exchanged—just kindling for this fire.

His kiss isn't gentle. It's possessive, demanding, those steel-gray eyes finally revealing what he wants. Me. Without pretense or negotiation. His stubble scrapes against my skin, the slight sting only heightening everything else.

"Fuck," he growls against my mouth, the single word vibrating through me as his hands find my thighs, my hips. His fingers dig in like he's been starving for this, like he's marking territory.

I should stop this. I made a deal to be at his beck and call, not to fall into his bed. This complicates everything—and I don't do complicated. Not with men who carry guns and deal in territories. Not with men who know exactly how dangerous they are.

I fight for control, but it's a losing battle. My body betrays me, responding to his every touch like he's finding switches I didn't know existed. The wall presses cold against my back as he crowds me against it, all solid muscle and controlled strength.

"We shouldn't—" I try, but the protest sounds weak even to my ears.

I push against his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt, only for him to catch my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The move is swift, effortless—a reminder of exactly who I'm dealing with. A man who handles threats for a living.

"Tell me to stop," he challenges, his face inches from mine, voice rough with need. "Tell me you don't want this."

His eyes connect with mine and I don’t say a word.

Then, his mouth is back on mine, devouring me as I surrender to him. I give in like I’ve been dying to for weeks—months really. His free hand slides up my side, thumb grazing just beneath my breast, and I'm arching into him instead of resisting, chasing the touch.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, and I feel his smile against my lips—that infuriating confidence that makes me want to slap him almost as much as I want to tear his clothes off.

"I hate that smug look," I breathe against his mouth, but there's no conviction in it.

"No, you don't." His lips travel to my neck, finding a spot that makes my knees weak. "You love that I know exactly what you want, even when you're too stubborn to admit it."

His grip on my wrists loosens, but I don't move them. The surrender is its own kind of thrill—letting go of the control I cling to everywhere else. With Enzo, I don't have to be the one holding everything together. For once, I can just feel.

And God, do I feel. Every inch of my skin is alive, hypersensitive. The contrast of his rough hands and deliberate touch. The heat of him pressed against me, his expensive cologne mixing with something darker, something purely him.

His grip on me tightens, a possessive claim I should resist but can't. Enzo spins me around in one fluid motion, pressing me against the cool wall. My cheek meets the smooth surface, his chest a wall of heat against my back. The contrast leaves me dizzy, caught between his burning touch and the chill against my skin.

"Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a rasp in my ear as his hands find the hem of my dress, sliding beneath the fabric. His fingers trail fire up my thighs, mapping territory that's been his since the moment I agreed to his deal.

"You already know," I challenge, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg, even as my body arches back against his.

His laugh is dark, knowing. "I want to hear you say it."

I feel his hardness pressing against me through his pants, the evidence of how much he wants this—wants me. His hand slides higher, teasing along the edge of my underwear, and I bite my lip to stop from making a sound that would give me away.

"You're mine," he growls, voice rough with something primal and possessive. His teeth graze my earlobe, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "Say it."

I should argue. Should spin around with some sharp, cutting remark about how I don't belong to anyone, especially not a man whose business is built on violence and control. I'm Kendra Washington—I don't yield, don't submit, don't give men like him the satisfaction of ownership.

But I don't say any of that. Because in this moment, pressed between his body and the wall, his words feel true. I am his. Just as surely as he's become mine in ways neither of us planned.

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