Page 25 of Savage Vows
They put me in my old room and turn the key. I hear the scrape of metal and the soft click that used to mean bedtime when I was small and stubborn, only now it means something else entirely.The hallway quiets. Footsteps fade. The house settles around me like a lid.
Everything looks familiar and wrong at the same time. The curtains are the same pale fabric my mother chose when I was eleven, the wardrobe still smells faintly of starch, the desk sits beneath the window with a neat stack of stationery no one ever used. Someone has polished the wooden bed so thoroughly the light pools on it, and for a moment I see myself as a child, shoes kicked under the frame, a book open on my chest because I never could sleep when the house was full of voices.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and the first tear slides down my face before I know it’s coming. I press my palms to my eyes and breathe, trying to hold myself together long enough to think, but the thought that keeps breaking through is Julianne, the sound of her voice over a bad connection, the way it caught and fell away. I should have called sooner. I should have been faster. I should have known that coming back would spring every trap at once.
I check my pockets out of habit. They took my phone somewhere between the tea shop and the gates. Of course they did.
I circle the room, try the handle, test the hinge with my shoulder, lift the window to see if they remembered how it sticks in humid weather. The sash barely moves. The paint along the frame has been touched up and the seam is sealed tight. Outside, the garden looks as carefully arranged as the hall downstairs, hedges trimmed, gravel raked, no space for a misstep.
I sit again and let myself cry properly, quiet and ugly, the kind that has no audience and no relief. I cry for the girl who was told to be grateful and learned to move without being seen, for my mother who could not meet my eyes today, for my brotherstanding on the stairs looking older than he should, and most of all for Julianne who might be out there alone with people who think a wedding is a weapon.
When it passes, I wipe my face on my sleeve and count my breaths until my ribs loosen. I look around the room with a different eye. There’s a hairpin on the vanity, thin and strong. There’s a narrow gap between the wardrobe and the wall where the baseboard is not flush. The sheets are crisp and long enough to braid if I have to. The desk chair is old and the back spindle is loose if I work it. I catalogue these things the way I would in any unfamiliar place, not because I think one will save me on its own, but because knowing them makes me feel less trapped.
I speak her name into the room. It sounds small and wrong in the space where I used to whisper it through the crack under the door to make her laugh. I picture her at the top of the stairs as a child, toes over the edge because she always leaned forward into everything, and then I try to see her now, older, frightened, her face stubborn in a way that looks like mine when I catch it in the mirror.
If they mean to use her as a lesson, they will find out I learned more than they intended.
I stand and press my ear to the door. Nothing.
I kneel and look at the gap beneath it, watch for shadows that do not appear. The house breathes around me, the old pipes ticking, the clock in the hall counting time I can’t waste. I straighten the bedspread so the room looks untouched and then I pocket the hairpin and work the loose spindle free from the chair back, easing it out millimeter by millimeter so the wood won’t complain.
I’m not walking down anyone’s aisle. I’m not letting my sister disappear into the quiet they prefer. They think this room has made me small again. They think locks and history and a dress that doesn’t fit can keep me still.
They have forgotten who taught me how to leave.
“I’m not getting married to anyone.”
Present day…
I feel the weight leave my head as the veil lifts, lace whispering over my hair, and then I’m looking at him.
He’s devastatingly handsome in a way that feels unfair, dark hair smoothed back from a strong forehead, eyes a pale winter blue that hold without blinking, a mouth cut in a line that looks like it has never begged for anything. The suit fits him like it was made around his body, the white collar open just enough for me to see the line of his throat, and something in me stirs with recognition before my mind catches up to my eyes.
I know him.
The man from the private hallway at Serrano’s club. The one whose eyes slid past me like I was no one. He doesn’t seem to recognize me now. Was he the one who rescued Julie? I’ve no time to ponder over that now.
He lifts the veil slowly, like he’s unwrapping something precious, and the faint brush of his fingers against my cheek sends a shiver all the way down my spine.
Then he’s looking at me—really looking—and the heat in his gaze makes my knees feel weak.
“Adriana,” he murmurs, like he’s tasting my name.
Before I can breathe, he leans in and kisses me.
It’s not a polite, ceremonial kiss. It’s deep from the first touch, his mouth hot and sure against mine, his tongue sliding between my lips to claim me. The church, the guests, the priest—all of it vanishes under the rush of heat flooding through me.
His scent is warm and masculine, the faintest trace of smoke and spice. My body betrays me instantly, my nipples tightening beneath the satin of my dress, and a slick ache blooms between my thighs.God, I’m wet already.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, one hand cupping the back of my neck to hold me exactly where he wants me. His thumb brushes the sensitive spot under my ear, and the low groan he lets out vibrates right through me.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to look into my eyes, there’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips—like he knows exactly what he’s done to me. My chest rises and falls too quickly, my heart slamming against my ribs.
And I know, in that moment, that nothing about this marriage is going to be safe.
6
DANTE
