Page 8 of Lethal Vows

“I can handle myself, and it’s close. Go home, cuddle your cat.” I step out to the road and wave down a cab. She seems torn about leaving me, so I open the door and nod for her to get in.

“How are you so relaxed?” she whispers. “I mean, he did it right next to you.”

“I’m fine. I deal with criminals, remember. Go to bed.” I reluctantly give her a one-armed hug before she climbs into the cab, and then I watch as she drives off. I take the short walk home to decompress.

When I arrive at my apartment, the doorman opens the door as I approach. He gives me a once-over, most likely because of the state of my dress, but says nothing. As I step into the elevator and press the button for my floor, my mind drifts with so many variables.

Crue.Why is he here, and why now?

My boss.What was Crue’s objective?

But I try to push those thoughts away, knowing I’ll become obsessed with it like my cases. And tonight, I want to sleep. I exit the elevator and unlock my door before I step in and shut it behind me.

“Your dress is dirty.”

I don’t think, I act.

Spinning, I shoot my hand out straight for the throat of whoever is behind me. He catches it though, and drops his head to the side. But that doesn’t stop me. My knee comes up and meets with his junk. Crue bends over, his hand letting go of mine as I fist his hair and pull him all the way down. I sidestep him, intent on getting to the kitchen, but he reaches for me, grips the side of my dress while he’s still bent over, and I kick again, only this time my heel meets his ribs. “Fucking hell,” he shouts. And just as I start to move again, both of his arms circle my waist and pin my hands to my sides.

I’m breathing heavily, and so is he. I try to wiggle away, but he grunts and tightens his hold, keeping me in place.

“Could you not make my cock hard after you just fucking kneed it,” he grumbles. I pause at his words, my body straightening and locking tight. “Who taught you to fight?” Crue asks.

“Let me go.”

“Whotaught you to fight?” he demands, and I have the distinct impression he isn’t a man who often asks questions twice.

“My father put me in jujitsu when I was eight. When I moved here, his requirement was for me to continue any form of fighting. I chose kickboxing,” I tell him, trying to get my hands free. “Now… Let. Me. Go.”

“Lethal,” he whispers near my ear before dropping his arms around my waist and stepping back.

I turn around to face him. “Why are you here?”

“Are you married?” Crue asks, looking down at my hand.

“No.” My brows scrunch together in confusion.

“I’m thirty-three,” he tells me.

“Oookay.”

And it hits me.

All at once.

How could I forget?

Probably because I just watched him kill someone. Was this really what this was all about? The arranged marriage between our families?

“I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Donotbe late. One thing I do not tolerate is lateness.”

“Do not tolerate?” I ask. “What does that even mean?”

“The last man who was late to one of my meetings lost a finger,” Crue explains as he heads to the door. Then he pulls it open and walks out without a backward glance.

I’m left standing there, wondering what the hell is happening and how he managed to get inside my apartment.

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