Page 18 of Possessive Vows

I follow her down the hall, staying vigilant with every step as my mind calculates the time since I murdered the man in the garden.

Nurse Shelly calls out for Camilla and emerges from the office behind the front desk.

“This should cover you for about ten days. Try not to skip any doses, okay?” she says as she hands a small, clear plastic bag with several pill bottles inside to Camilla.

Camilla nods and tucks the bag into her purse.

The worry in her eyes darkens her irises to almost the same color as her pupils as she glances at me.

She isn’t embarrassed about receiving the medicines, but her pride demands she walk out the front door with her head held high and her shoulders back. I skirt around in front of her before she can exit and motion for her to stay in the lobby as I check the drive.

When nothing seems out of place, I gesture for her to continue, and as she walks past me, her gentle scent teases my nostrils.

Every second I spend with her is another moment I fall deeper under her spell. I cannot let the little beam of sunlight into my darkened heart. She threatens to uproot my loyalty to my late wife.

Camilla Vivaldi may become an obsession if I am not careful.

I must protect her. Marry her. Heal her.

But I cannot let her infect my soul.

Chapter 5

Camilla Vivaldi

Every rustle of the bushesas we pass heightens my senses, and even with the behemoth at my back and the warm breeze on my skin, my fear lodges a brick in my stomach. I ignore my growing apprehension as I leave my sanctuary behind and stroll down the sidewalk toward the front gate as though nothing is amiss.

My mind still reels from Dimitri’s decision to take me to my room. He not only gave me time to grab my purse, but he also called my brother and waited as I prepared to leave.

The bandage pulls on my cheek as I turn my head to check my trail. Dimitri’s crystal-clear blue eyes shine brighter than the sky despite his towering height. I swallow and turn my attention back in front of me when I realize his bulky frame blocks my view of everything except the top floor of the facility.

“Stop,so´lnyshka,” he demands.

The hairs on my nape raise. I halt.

“Give me your bag,” he says.

Dread floods my veins, but I peel my fingers off the strap of my purse and slip it off my shoulders. Expecting the worst, I blink in confusion when he takes the bigger bag and dangles my compact purse out for me to take. The strap seems tiny and delicate compared to his thick, tattooed digits. I reach out and curse my weak body as my fingers tremble.

His intense blue orbs and ruggedly handsome features steal my breath as he studies my face.

Shame curls through my veins as arousal warms my abdomen. I slip my purse onto my shoulder and lift my chin.

“Thank you,” I say in a voice I haven’t used in ages.

As a successful model, my haughty tone kept paparazzi, other models, and subpar photographers in their place, but since those men broke me a year ago, I had no need to use it.

It no longer feels like a shield. My skin crawls with self-disgust as I turn and start toward the front gate again.

My fallen guardian angel stalks behind me like a deadly shadow. When I realize my arousal grows as I imagine his eyes roaming hungrily over my curves, I huff and rub my fingers over the Band-Aid on my cheek.

No man wants my baggage. I have no curves either. My carefully maintained image is gone, replaced with haunted eyes, weakness, and a frailty I’ll struggle to overcome for years to come.

The guard steps out of the guardhouse and greets us but doesn’t ask for our identification. He wishes me a safe trip and asks me to thank my brother for helping his son.

My guilt grows. I know nothing about him or his situation. I haven’t been able to look past my nose for months. In fact, most days, my pain encompasses every ounce of my focus.

No more.

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