Page 97 of Dangerous Vows

And I’m here. Useless.

I long for Pietro to say something to me.

To tell me he doesn’t hate me.

To tell me he still wants me.

But he doesn’t.

I have been drifting in and out of sleep every night since I arrived. Pietro was in and out of my room for the first few days and never said much.

However, his actions spoke louder than words.

He surprised me with my favorite burger from the hotel this week, sat and watched me eat it, made sure I took my vitamins, and then disappeared again.

His answers are short and to the point. He’s a man of few words. There is no banter. It’s as if he’s turned off all his emotions. His eyes are icy blue. I can’t stay here and have him looking at me with pity. I can’t tolerate him looking at me as if I’m pathetic.

I don’t feel safe without his arms around me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stop feeling so much.

I’m alive. That should be enough.

But it’s not.

Not when the man I love treats me like I’m a ghost.

He’s using another bedroom, and that hurts more than anything. But last night, he came to my room. Is it possible that he’ll forgive me for not being honest with him?

Is there any chance we can return to where we started?

The wind off the water rattles the glass doors like it’s trying to remind me the world still exists out there.

I haven’t seen anything beyond these walls in days. There have been no visitors, no outings, just the quiet hum of the fridge and the sound of my thoughts, which are turning toxic.

And the TV. Ugg. I can’t possibly binge-watch another series. I’m not accustomed to sitting for so long.

Besides, TV is always the same, but today I see buildings on fire, and I turn the volume up. There are reports of shootings in the city. A journalist speculates about a brewing mafia war in the underground circles of New York City.

“Unconfirmed sources suggest this is a turf battle between organized crime families,” the anchor says with practiced calm.

I shut it off.

Unconfirmed sources.

They have no idea.

The war is real. I’ve seen it up close—felt it in the bruises and the anger. I’ve seen it in the cold stares Pietro gives me.

I pace the hallway, restlessness gnawing at my ribs. I want to scream, to run, to dosomethingthat isn’t just waiting for the next wave of danger to crash over us.

I’m in the kitchen, spinning the same glass of water between my fingers, watching the light catch in the ice, when I hear the knock at the door.

Not heavy. Not aggressive. Just a quick, familiar rhythm that doesn’t sound like one of Pietro’s guards.

I move cautiously, but when I reach the front door, Arman has his hand on the door.

My chest tightens.

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