Page 47 of Hateful Vows
“I’ve got news for you. Giulia’s hosting a masquerade ball at Rouge tomorrow tonight. We’ll share what we know with you,” he says, all professionalism. I like that about the man.
A wide smile spreads across my lips and Irina’s brow dips.
I hang up and kiss my wife’s cheeks. My plans are coming along way too perfectly.
I’m about to deepen the kiss when a feminine voice crashes my plans.
“Am I interrupting something?” Lucie asks.
I groan. “Lovely to see you this early in the morning, Luce.”
“It’s noon,” she counters. “I’m here to pick up Irina for brunch.”
She sits on the sofa, avoiding the shards of TV screen spread on the floor like a scene like this is a daily occurrence for her, and leaving the knife embedded exactly where it is.
“I forgot. Lucie, I don’t think now is a good time,” Irina starts but my cousin raises a hand, a knowing grin spreading on her face.
“No, no. Aleksei came home last night in a foul mood and smelling like both of you.” She gives us a pointed look, before continuing. “So, I need all the dirty details.”
Irina grumbles, ears tinged pink before she disappears into our bedroom to get ready.
“Why are you bleeding?” Lucie asks.
I grin and show her my new tattoo, making her laugh.
“I’m so glad we have new crazy additions to the family.”
I couldn’t agree more.
TWENTY
ALEKSEI
After the disaster at the gala, I stay holed up in my flat.
I’ve never been a coward a day in my life, my training ensured I followed orders at the expense of my own life. And it’s not self-preservation that has me avoiding a certain couple. It’s what I’m afraid I will do when I see them.
I groan as I remember the taste of Irina’s sweet pussy on my tongue, mixed with something inevitably him.
“What’s gotten into you, old man?” Lucie asks from the kitchen counter. She’s making Magda’s famous granola again. She says baking helps with her nerves.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re growling like an animal. It’s not natural.”
She snorts and shakes her head like she knows something I don’t. Our cohabitation for the past few weeks has delved into a sort of friendship I didn’t see coming. Contrary to my step-sister or Dante or basically anyone I know, she doesn’t ask questions. She’s quiet, likes to bake and draw and has taken to her captivity—her words, not mine—pretty well. She keeps saying it is temporary but I don’t see how.
I don’t dislike her and that’s more than I can say about anyone else.
The first night she stayed at my flat, she threatened to poison me if I ever tried to touch her. I’m not the only one who was trained to hate Italians. Because she lost her parents because of Russians, she despised us. Then, she said I was decent, and somehow that warmed me. More than any other praise I’ve ever received.
“I’m on edge. Nothing to worry about.”
“Why don’t you fuck someone? Get that energy out?” She keeps her eyes on her baking station but a wry smirk plays on her lips and I don’t know how to interpret it.
I frown. “I know it’s only on paper, but I don’t want my men to think I’m cheating on you.”
In this life, we don’t have much but our words, our promises, that matters. To me, it’s everything. I vowed to protect her and cherish her and even though I’ll never love her, I wouldn’t insult her like that. Even the most discreet affairs end up in the limelight. Besides, the only one I want isn’t available.
