Page 69 of Savage Vows
Sometime after sunset, Liam shows up, his hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He doesn’t bother knocking—he never does. He finds me at the sideboard, pouring another drink I don’t need.
“You’ve been a bastard all day,” he says, voice casual but his eyes sharp as a knife. “Yelling at the dog, snapping at everyone else, glowering like it’s a full-time job.”
I toss back the whiskey, set the glass down too hard. “You want to be next?”
Liam just grins, sinks into the old leather armchair across from me. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll have to do better. You want to talk about it or just keep brooding like some haunted widower?”
I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted. The tension in my chest is too raw to spit out. “People keep sticking their noses where they don’t belong,” I mutter, not looking at him. “And I can’t figure out if that includes my own wife.”
He whistles, low. “That’s a new one. You think she’s got secrets?”
I shrug, but it’s more of a shudder. “Don’t you think everyone does?”
He laughs, softer this time, eyes bright. “You’re not yourself, Dante. That girl’s under your skin.”
I ignore him, but my face feels hot. The truth is ugly and obvious, even to me. I’ve been wound so tight all day I can barely breathe.
The front door clicks. Soft, unmistakable—the delicate sound of heels on marble. My heart stutters in my chest.
Liam smirks, eyes flicking to the hallway. “Speak of the devil.” He gets up, pats my shoulder with a knowing squeeze. “Try not to bite her head off. Or do. Your call.”
He disappears as Adriana’s silhouette appears in the doorway, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold night air. I straightenbefore I even think about it, running a hand through my hair and trying to swallow down the bitterness.
She steps in, meets my gaze. For the first time all day, my pulse slows. The ache in my jaw eases. Even my anger feels suddenly foolish and thin, outshined by the way she looks at me—like she knows, and like maybe, just maybe, she’s missed me too.
God help me, but all she has to do is walk into a room and the whole day rewrites itself.
She stands just inside the doorway, one hand still on the knob like she’s not sure whether she’s coming or going. The light from the hallway catches in her hair, turns the edges gold. For a second, we just look at each other. I’m trying to remember every reason I was angry. She’s searching my face for a welcome.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how I must look—rumpled, tense, two buttons undone at my collar. I want to say something casual, but nothing comes out right.
“You’re late,” I manage, and it comes out gruff, like I’ve been holding my breath all day.
She arches a brow, sets her bag down by the door. “It’s not that late.”
I try to hold on to my irritation, but it slips through my fingers. I’m just…relieved she’s here. “Next time, text me,” I say, softer this time. “Or I’ll send out a search party.”
She almost smiles. There’s something cautious in her eyes, something that makes me want to pull her in and demand the truth—about the church, about everything. But I just stand there, hands buried in my pockets, watching her like she might vanish if I look away.
She toes off her shoes and crosses the room, the distance between us shrinking with every step. She stops a foot away, tilts her head. “Is something wrong?”
I open my mouth, then close it. For a moment, I want to tell her everything—about Serrano, about the questions gnawing at me, about how every room in this house feels colder without her in it.
Instead, I shake my head. “Nothing I want to talk about,” I say, which isn’t the same as nothing at all.
She studies me a second longer, and for the first time all day, the tension eases—just a little. The house is still, the night quiet except for the sound of our breathing. Somehow, in all the empty space between us, it feels like we’re standing on the edge of something that could be dangerous, or something that could finally feel like home.
I want to reach for her. I want her to reach for me first.
She hesitates—just long enough for me to feel it—then closes the last step between us. Her hand comes up, brushes lightly over my forearm. It’s nothing and everything, that touch. Like she’s testing the water, and I’m so starved for it I’d drown in a puddle. I glance down at her, at the tiny crease between her brows.
“You’re really not going to tell me what’s wrong?” she murmurs.
I look away, jaw tight. “Not tonight.”
She lets her hand fall, but she doesn’t step back. “You don’t have to protect me from your bad moods, you know. I’ve lived with worse.”
There’s a flash of something bitter in her voice, and it makes me ache. “That’s not the point,” I say, softer than I mean to. “It’s not you I’m angry at.”
