Page 48 of Savage Vows
Bella never mentioned bands. This place usually stamps hands at the door. Wristbands mean…something else. A list, a section, a rule I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t notice it either.
It’s not much. But it’s something.
That’s all I have. And it’s not enough to call anyone, not enough to prove anything. Which means I have to go to the club. See it up close. Watch who gets the bands and where they go.
I turn off the lamp and lie in the dark with the phone under my pillow and the words blinking in my head.
Blue bands.
It should be enough to quiet me. It isn’t.
I keep circling back to him.
Dante’s hands on my waist when the church went silent. His mouth on mine when the room decided to watch. The way I hated it and answered anyway, as if my body had not gotten the message my brain has been writing since I came back.
I hate how easily my body answered him. My pulse still trips over itself remembering the heat of his palm at my waist, the strength in his grip, how he handled me like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He was right, in his own cold way. I watched him earlier today, couldn’t help myself. The way he stands in a room. How everyone else shrinks back. How he seems to know what’s going to happen a second before it does. I can still feel the weight of his gaze from across the church, from the car, from the hall outside this very door.
But this morning, the way he brutally killed that man without even flinching.
I saw him—really saw him—standing over that man, cold as the marble statues, the gun steady in his hand. Not a word. Not ahesitation. A machine, I think, built by his father for moments just like that. I know that’s what he is. A weapon in a suit.
But he’s more than just the threat. There’s something in the quiet way he watches. The careful, measured way he speaks. Something almost…lonely. I tell myself not to think about that, not to soften the edges. But I can’t help it. I’m not sure if it’s curiosity or something worse.
My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind won’t let go. Blue bands, locked doors, missing girls, and now this man—my husband—whose hands still feel like a bruise on my skin, even when he’s not in the room.
I squeeze my eyes shut and promise myself tomorrow I’ll be smarter. Stronger. I’ll find the answers I came here for. I won’t let him distract me.
I barely sleep. When I do, my dreams are a mess of blue wristbands and dark corridors, a flash of Dante’s eyes in the garden, the weight of a gun in the morning mist.
When dawn finally comes, I dress quickly, wash my face, and slip my notebook and phone into my bag. I remind myself why I’m here. Julianne. I need to find my sister. I can’t let myself forget that, no matter what else crowds in.
Downstairs, the house is already awake. Coffee and voices drift from the kitchen. The Volkovs gather in the dining room, talking in low voices.
I feel their eyes on me as I step in, but it’s Liam who waves me over with a grin.
“Morning, Mrs. Volkova,” he says, as if the words are still a private joke.
“Hungry?”
I nod and take a seat, reaching for a slice of toast. My stomach is a knot, but I need something normal to do with my hands.
He pushes a jar of jam toward me. “Did you sleep?”
I shrug. “A little.”
He studies me, then grins. “You’ll get used to the noise here. We’re not a quiet family.”
I don’t say anything to that.
“You’re just in time. Coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I sit, pull a mug close, and try to look like I belong.
He grins. “You survived another night. That’s worth a medal in this house.”
I manage a smile. The others don’t bother hiding their glances.
