Page 1 of Ruined Vows

ONE

ISAAK

“Take a load off,man. You’re not working tonight,” Caleb calls from behind Carnal’s sleek, obsidian bar, his voice threading through the low thrum of bass vibrating the floor beneath my boots.

I don’t respond right away. My eyes stay locked on the club, scanning with the precision of muscle memory. Even here, leaning against the bar instead of holding my usual post by the wall, my skin feels too tight. This angle leaves blind spots. I don’t do blind spots.

From my usual station, I can clock every asshole in the room, every twitch, every shift in posture that might mean trouble. But from this vantage point—leaning at the bar like some relaxed civilian—I can’t see the far side of the club.

It makes my skin itch even though I know there’s no real threat. Not tonight. It’s early, so there’s only a few regulars scattered in the booths. None of the private rooms in the back are occupied.

“Habit,” I finally mutter, eyes still sweeping.

Caleb snorts, drying a glass with an old rag like he’s auditioning for the role of "Bored Bartender #3" in some indie flick. “You’ve got to get a life.”

Marcus laughs beside me, his Coke sweating on the bar, his eyes bloodshot from too many late nights—or maybe just regular life with a toddler at home. “Can’t. Isaak’s allergic to fun.”

“Can’t,” I agree, voice flat. “Taking a new job.”

Caleb’s towel stills mid-swipe. “Right. Domhn mentioned. Figured we couldn’t keep you chained here forever. But bodyguard work? Really?”

“Personal protection officer work,” I correct without thinking, the words sharp, automatic.

Quinn’s sitting in the lounge area, her legs resting on the back of a man who’s on his hands and knees, acting as her footstool. She sips sparkling soda and otherwise ignores the collared man at her feet. Moira’s half-heartedly scene-ing with Big Rick in the corner. Big Rick is a dom who’s more talk than game. He comes here to get laid more than anything else. Just wears his leathers to look the part.

Moira looks bored while lying on her stomach in the sex swing. Big Rick stands behind her, holding her bent legs by her ankles, trying to fuck her like he’s got something to prove, all rhythmic thrusts and sweaty bravado.

Moira looks like she’s mentally filing her taxes. Her eyes catch mine. A flash of something—challenge, maybe—flickers there, but I don’t bite. Not anymore. Sure, Moira and I used to tangle sometimes before or after work. And she’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But wild. And dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with whips and restraints.

I’ve seen the fractures she pretends aren’t there up close. Everyone around here wants to deny it, but that girl is fubar’d.

I don’t need that kind of wreckage in my life. Not anymore.

“Adult babysitting?” Marcus leans in, his voice a low drawl. “Sounds like hell.”

“It pays,” I grunt. “I’m thinking of starting an agency with some buddies.”

Caleb arches a sarcastic brow. “Buddies? You’ve got friends?”

“Yeah. They just don’t live here.”

And even if they did, I’m not the kind of guy people keep around for laughs and late-night heart-to-hearts. I’m good for one thing—protection. And violence, I suppose, if it comes to that.

But this personal protection agency? It’s the first thing that’s made my blood stir in years. Since the sandbox, I’ve been stuck in this endless loop—wake, run, gym, work, fuck, repeat. Like I’m waiting for something to start, but nothing ever does.

When you’rethere, all you can think about is getting back home. But when you finally do, home feels like stepping into a weird place where everything’s been taken over by aliens. It’s all the same but different.

And finally you realize, they aren’t the aliens.

Youare.

Deep inside. And you don’t know if you’ll truly ever be able to get home again.

“Hey,” Caleb says, snapping me out of it. “You still in there, man?”

I blink, shaking it off. “Yeah.”

But the truth is, I’m not. Not really.

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