Page 8 of Vows in Sin
Reign takes a step forward, and I instinctively take one back—until my spine hits a metal shelf. I stare up into the eyes of a bearded man who looks like he either wants to kill me or gobble me up in one bite. His irises are such a striking shade of my favorite green; I don’t know if my knees go weak from fear or from locking eyes with the man.
His size, his energy; he’s got me shaken. My heart hammers in my ears as I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just stares. And in that silence, something shifts in the room—like the oxygen rearranges itself to make space for him.
“Do you talk?” he finally says, his voice low and gravel-rough. The kind that slides down your spine like a cold blade.
I blink. My mouth opens. Closes.
What is this man going to do to me?
3
Reign
I’m the Consigliere—the unseen blade at everyone’s side, steering every move from the shadows. Strategy is my currency, silence is my shield. I disdain the ballroom glitter and whispering ladies in six-figure gowns.
I’d bleed for this family.
My name is Renan, but the boys call me Reign—the monarch of whispers and warfare. Born in England’s council estates, forged by hardship, crowned by power.
Tonight’s operation was simple: trap a Moretti errand boy, plant a tracker, send a warning. I had club manager Burns set the bait. I never expected to snare an angel. But here she is. Wide-eyed, fearless; chaos in silver and hot pink.
She’s the storm I didn’t see coming. And I’m enticed by every curve.
Work waits, but temptation weighs heavier. Weakness is the prelude to every mistake I’ve made. And yet… I cradle thisbeguiling danger against my chest, ready to learn just how reckless I can be.
She’s defiant; shoulders back, violet heels digging into the concrete. The tender pulse in the soft skin of her neck rises and falls, thrumming like a warning for me to retreat.
I let her go, dropping my hands like I’ve touched a flame.
Free from my hold, she takes a step back. After smoothing down her dress, she looks up at me, steel in her pretty brown gaze, yet she trembles.
I eye her, curls to heels. “You don’t look like one of Dame’s girls.”
“And what does that mean? Are you calling me ugly?” She pulls a face.
I lift a brow. “Did I say that?”
“You said I don’t look like Dame’s girls.”
“You don’t.” Splashes of hot pink, the glittering dress, and the fear she fights to keep at bay.
“You don’t look like a Bachman.” She eyes me, making her point—my grease-stained jeans, a dark tee, workboots heavy with shop grime.
“I came straight from the shop. The chain on my Harley needed fixing. And I only meant you’re a natural beauty.”
“Dame’s tastes have changed. He’s gone au naturel. I’m here to surprise him.”
“Dame doesn’t do surprises.”
“I meant to say he’ll be waiting for me.”
“He’s either waiting or he’s not. If he’s not…there will be consequences, little girl.”
She juts up that defiant chin. “Who are you calling little?”
“You.” I step closer. My hands itch to grab her and pull her to me.
Her spine bows, but her chin stays high. I admire that fire. I can’t stop myself from reaching out. My hands clamp to her waist like a vice.
