Page 12 of Bloody Vows
I’m not looking to make an enemy of Konstantin Abramov, but I’m not going to be cowed by him, either. I’ll arrive when I’m ready, and with an engagement ring for my bride.
The woman returns after a few minutes with a velvet display studded with rings. “We have other options as well,” she says, setting it down in front of me. “But this is what I thought I would offer you to start—a variety of what we have here.”
I quickly discount anything in yellow gold, too old-fashioned, and rose gold, too girlish for a woman like Simone. Some of the rings are overly garish, but my gaze settles on one, a large emerald cut—maybe five carats—in an Art Deco setting made of sleek platinum. It’s elegant and stands out from the rest, and it looks perfectly suited to Simone, in my opinion.
“This one.” I point to it, reaching into my jacket for my wallet. “I’ll need it wrapped up quickly. I’m running late.”
The saleswoman moves with surprising speed. Within ten minutes, the ring is packaged, paid for, and I’m on my way to the Russo mansion. The security guards wave us through the gates, and the driver parks in the circular driveway, the car idling as I take a moment to compose myself before I get out of the car.
This is it—the moment where I’ll find out if she’s going to be mine. And truthfully, I don’t know how I can let Konstantin kill her if she says no. How can I accept anofrom her lips when the only word that I can imagine her saying isyes?
I want her. But I have no intention of letting her see what she does to me.
That would give her the upper hand. And when it comes to Simone Russo, I know one thing for certain.
I always intend to be the one in control.
4
SIMONE
The library door closes behind Tristan O'Malley with a soft click that sounds like the lid of a coffin slamming shut. I stand frozen next to the bookshelves for what feels like an eternity, my hands clenched into fists so tight that my knuckles are turning white.
Twenty-four hours.
That's all the time I have left before my life as I know it ends, one way or another.
Fury sears through me, a white-hot rage that burns through my chest and makes my vision blur around the edges. How dare they? How dare Konstantin waltz into my home and deliver ultimatums like I'm nothing more than a chess piece to be moved around at will? How dare that arrogant Irish bastard look at me like I'm something he's already conquered, like I'm a prize he's entitled to claim?
"Fuck them," I snarl to the empty room, my voice echoing off the leather-bound books and polished wood. "Fuck them all."
I grab the first thing I can reach—a crystal vase on a side table—and hurl it across the room. It crashes into a bookshelf on the other side of the room with a satisfying crack, sendingseveral volumes and the broken pieces of glass tumbling to the floor. The sound of destruction feels good, cathartic, but it's not enough to touch the rage boiling inside me.
I also feel guilty immediately after, because Nora will have to clean it up. I don’t want her to have to fix the results of my anger, so I walk to the other side of the room, methodically picking up the books and glass as my hands tremble with unleashed rage.
I want to scream. I want to break every piece of glass in this house, tear down every curtain, smash every mirror until the whole place reflects the chaos I feel inside. Instead, I sink into a leather armchair and press my hands to my face, trying to steady my breathing.
This can't be happening. This can't be my life.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was grieving my father—or who I thought my father was, a better man than he turned out to be—and worrying about my uncertain future. Now I'm supposed to marry a stranger, surrender everything I am and have to some Irish brute who sees me as nothing more than a convenient way to steal my inheritance.
Who looks at me like he owns me before the papers are even signed.
“Arrogant bastard!” I shout the words out into the room, but there’s nowhere for them to land. It feels like an empty, meaningless effort.
There’s nothing I can do that would be cathartic enough.
I've always known this day would come. I was raised understanding that my marriage would be arranged, that love would have nothing to do with it. I made peace with that reality years ago, accepted that my duty to my family would come before my personal desires. But… this doesn’t feel like what I expected.
I never imagined that a man would treat me like a partner, or an equal. But… I thought there would be some respect init. Tristan O’Malley doesn’t look at me like he respects me. He looks at me like he wants to own me.
He looked at me today like he was already planning how he'd possess me, how he'd break me down until I submitted to his will. And despite myself, I felt something when he looked at me that way, a tingling, primal awareness that makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I refuse to want him. I refuse to submit to anything he wants of me. It feels like the worst possible outcome to all of this.
Is it worse than dying?
I don’t know. I can’t know, of course. But I don’t want to die, not really. I just… don’t want to marry Tristan.
