Page 3 of Lethal Vows

I pull the bottle from my lips.

“Trust us?” I ask, now finally turning to look at him. His skin is tanned, his black shirt clings to his body—possibly from the heat—and his brows scrunch together as he stands there and lets me simply stare. Crue says nothing, just licks his lips. I seem to do the same thing, watching his dark eyes drop to mine. There is a silent intensity in that stare. And if I didn’t know any better, I would say his breathing got heavier.

“How old are you?” Crue asks.

“Sixteen,” I reply. He shakes his head and steps back. “Why?” Crue looks over his shoulder at Angel and Dominic, who are making out, him holding her up and her legs wrapped around his waist.

Right, I’m on my own with this one, then.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

I don’t know why, but every hair on my body raises. It feels like there is an underlying question, but I answer anyway, “Yes.”

“Why?” Crue takes the bottle of wine from me, lifts it to his lips, and takes a sip. He offers it back to me, and when he does, our fingers touch.

Butterflies take flight in my stomach. What the fuck! So I pull the bottle away and take a sip, hoping to drown them out.

I don’t think I’ll ever see this man again, so there’s no point in feeling any sexual tension around him.

“I’m going to live with my mother. How old are you?” I ask, and Crue smirks.

“Nineteen.” He looks at his brother when Angel shouts Dominic’s name and slaps him. They’re still giggling and making out.

“How old is your brother?” My eyes don’t follow his. Instead, they trace the outline of his jaw, the slight stubble of hair growing there, and I wonder if it’s as sharp as it looks.

“Almost eighteen.” Okay, he isn’t too much older than Angel. Crue looks back at me. “What do you plan to do in New York?”

“I plan to not have my father arrange my marriage. It’s why I’m leaving,” I answer, averting my gaze. He can’t force me to marry anyone if I'm not here. It’s basically selling ownership of my freedom, and I am not down for that.

“Hmm,” is his only response.

“What about you? Are you destined to marry anyone?” I ask sarcastically.

“If I choose.”

“Lucky you,” I grumble.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Crue smirks.

“Why?” I ask, becoming invested in this conversation.

“Because the one I’m arranged to marry is running off to New York.”

The bottle of wine in my hand feels red hot and I want to drop it to relieve the burn.

Did he just say what I think he did?

No.

“Bit stunned?” Crue asks. “Figured I would come meet the one I am matched to.” He turns and walks off, while I stand there, confused and slowly shaking my head.

I was told I had a match, and because of that, I had worked out a plan to get away.

Escape.

To be free.

Crueis to be my husband when I turn eighteen.

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