Page 18 of Lethal Vows

Crue.

“Arrghh!”I scream at his email. Is this asshole threatening me now? I was certain that saying“I won’t marry you”was as clear as“I’m not interested, now fuck off.”

My phone dings in my hand, indicating another email has come through.

Dear Miss Ricci

Knock, knock.

Open the door.

Crue.

My handsclench around my phone. He’s joking, right? There is no way he is actually here. And that’s when I hear it.

Knock. Knock.

On my apartment door.

I freeze, but then it comes again.

Knock. Knock.

Getting up and walking to the kitchen, I grab whatever I can find as a weapon, which just so happens to be a pair of sharp scissors, and I quietly move to the door. I look through the peephole to see Crue standing on the other side.

“I can hear you breathing, princess.”

This guy is out of his goddamn mind. I huff out a breath and pull open the door.

Crue’s gaze catches mine before it falls to what’s in my hand. “Do you plan to stab me?” he asks with a raised brow.

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.

“Now, that’s no way to treat your future husband,” he scolds, sending a shiver racking through me. This guy has a one-track mind. I don’t know whether to be impressed by his laser focus or annoyed by his inability to take a damn hint.

“I won’t marry you,” I all but growl out.

He steps forward, and I lift my hand, holding the scissors. He plucks them from my fingers before I can do anything. Scanning his face, I see my bite mark still decorating his cheek.

“Drinking without me, princess?” He walks in without an invite as if he owns the apartment, scissors in his hand. I stare after him as he shifts to my kitchen and opens the refrigerator despite the bottle of red wine being in clear sight. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he turns back to me, where I’m still standing at the door. “You have nothing in your fridge.”

“I know that.”

“How? Or better yet, why?” He closes the refrigerator and goes for the cupboard, pulling that open next. It feels more like a shakedown than it does him searching for alcohol. When he’s met with the same thing, he shakes his head. “Do you starve yourself?”

“No.”

“Then where the fuck is your shit?” He throws his hands up, and when he does, his sleeve lifts, and I get a sneak peek of more ink.

He might have barged into my home, but that doesn’t mean I have to answer all of his questions.

Changing the subject, I curiously ask, “Why do you have so many tattoos?”

“Why do you have no food?” Crue bites back. He decides to settle on the red wine, picking it up and searching for a glass.

I huff out an irritated sigh. We could go back and forth with this all night.

Time—is something I don’t have.

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