Page 15 of Possessive Vows

She stuns me with her bravery as she rolls her shoulders back and says the one thing I don’t expect in the most unyielding tone a woman has ever taken with me.

“Then come inside with me. I will not leave without a way to contact my sister,” she says.

I pause, finding her choice of words odd. Why would she invoke the thought of her sister instead of her brother? I decide it doesn’t matter as I consider her proposal. It isn’t ideal. If my brother is watching her through the security footage the facility no doubt has, then he will know I am in the United States.

He will know soon anyway.

I am not hiding. I will marry Camilla Vivaldi.

I cannot start relations with her family if I deny her access to her phone. Maybe contacting her brother through her is the wisest method.

I nod my acceptance of her suggestion. She swallows and glances behind me before nodding in return. I watch her closely, uncertain of her next move and entranced by her expressive eyes.

She shocks me again by looking down at herself and striding to the fountain with all the grace of a princess, as though she wasn’t just huddled in the grass vomiting.

As she dips her hands and arms in the water and dries my knife on the front of her sweatshirt, electricity zings down my spine and pools in my balls. I inhale long and slow through my nostrils as she tucks my knife into her waistband, the thought of the blade I’ve carried for over a decade now resting against the bare flesh of her hip more profound than I believed possible.

My cock hardens as she pulls her sweatshirt over her head, wets the cuff in the fountain, and wipes the blood off her neck.

Her curves are pure sin. High, pert breasts. No bra needed. Her stiff nipples poke at her t-shirt even through the loose material. Although baggy and at least a size too big, her sweatpants can’t hide her narrow waist and the slight flare of her hips.

I can’t force myself to look away.

As she dunks the sleeve of her sweatshirt deeper into the water, she glances up at the top of the fountain.

The black circle of a camera lens sits in the recesses of the design, but since the stone is white, it stands out. When she flicks her eyes toward me, I can’t decipher whether she means to warn me of its existence or if she hopes to convey her predicament to the person hidden behind the camera.

As I step forward, she ducks her head and wipes her face with her sweatshirt. Goosebumps rise on her nape. A breeze ruffles through the trees.

I washed in a water spigot not long ago. The weather was much cooler than here, but she is not acclimated to the cold, and with her lower body weight, she must be more susceptible to the chill.

When I’m certain the camera can see my face, I stop, unwilling to frighten my little beam of sunlight by moving too close. She has too many clouds eager to snuff out the brilliance in her eyes.

After scrubbing her face, she wrings out the sleeve, turns her back to the camera, and takes a few absentminded steps away from the fountain—straight toward me until she’s within reaching distance—before tying the sweatshirt around her waist. When she looks up, my heart stutters behind my sternum.

Her face is more stunning without the makeup. Sure, her waterproof eyeliner and mascara remain in place, but without all the fake contouring and supposed enhancements, she seems softer. More delicate. More like a gentle fairy.

Thin white scars sit in neat rows on her left cheek, stark in the bright morning sun.

I read her completely wrong. She wasn’t warning anyone. She wanted to hide her unpainted face from the camera.

Her eyes widen and the color drains from her features as she realizes how close we are, but despite her discomfort over my nearness, she doesn’t panic. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. A blush darkens her cheeks, making the scars stand out more.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I didn’t hear you move closer.”

Her voice only slightly wavers. A shiver wracks her spine.

I unzip my jacket and shrug it off. She leans away from me, but I reach around her and settle the thick fabric onto her shoulders.

Her nostrils flare and pupils shrink, but she pulls the ends closed around her front and clears her throat.

“Thank you,” she says.

I pull the pack of children’s bandages from my pocket, pop it open, and pull the top bandage out before returning the case to my pocket.

She stares in wary disbelief as I tear open the packaging.

“Do not move,so´lnyshka,” I murmur.

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