Page 21 of Vow to Claim You

A dangerous word.

A forbidden one.

Yet it lingers all the same. And if anyone so much as touched a single strand of her hair, I would kill them. Every last one. Even if it cost me everything I’d built. Even if it meant tearing Olympus apart, bone by bone, and burning our world to ash. Even if it meant war. Because I made vows to her at the altar, and I am a man who keeps his promises.

But she will never know that. I won’t let her.

CHAPTER NINE

Ayanna

My palm has finally stopped bleeding, but the metallic aftertaste of that ridiculous oath clings to my tongue. Aric guides me through the group of members, introducing me name by name, but there are too many faces, too many titles, too many empires wrapped in one room. All powerful enough to start a war with one look. Predators sizing up the new lamb.

Aric starts with a tall, sharp-featured man whose presence alone could lower the temperature of the room by ten degrees.

“Alexei Morozov,” Aric says. “Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.”

Alexei’s icy gaze sweeps over me like I’m being scanned for weapons or weaknesses before he gives me a curt nod. A stunning dark-haired woman stands beside him draped in burgundy silk.

“Zahra Al-Khalid,” Aric adds, “Alexei’s wife.”

Zahra smiles at me, but before I can offer so much as a polite smile, Alexei turns and walks away. His wife inclines her head toward me—a small, gracious acknowledgment—before following him into the crowd.

“Did I…” I glance up at Aric. “Did I do something to offend him?”

“That’s just Alexei,” he drawls. “He’s not one for small talk.”

I watch the couple disappear into the sea of tailored suits and glittering gowns. “They seem... cordial.”

“They are. Their marriage was arranged. Political. There’s no love between them, but there’s respect. They’ve made it work.”

An unexpected heaviness settles in my chest. Respect without love. Duty without passion. A lifetime spent beside someone instead of with them.

“Is that what you expect from us?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Aric’s jaw flexes. His stare cuts sideways to me, unreadable as ever. “Would that be so terrible?”

I don’t know what to say, and Aric’s quiet for a moment. Then his hand finds my waist, guiding me toward the next group. It’s subtle, but deliberate. The first time he’s touched me like this—publicly, intentionally. Not for show. Not quite possession. Something in-between.

“Bobby and Marcelina Thorne.” Aric’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “Our newlyweds from Las Vegas Syndicate.”

Bobby Thorne smirks like he knows ten secrets about me I don’t even know about myself. Something behind that smirk makes my skin prickle.

Marcelina, in contrast, is all quiet elegance. Ethereal, even. Pale-blue eyes that seem to hold secrets she’ll never tell, champagne-blond hair cascading over her shoulders like something out of a Renaissance painting. She’s beautiful in the way that makes you look twice. Not because she demands attention, but because she doesn’t seem to want it at all.

“Ah, newlyweds.” I flash her a sympathetic smile. “Welcome to the club.”

It slips out light and teasing, but Marcelina’s answering smile doesn’t match. It’s tight and restrained. Well rehearsed. Her blue eyes flick down to my wedding ring, and it’s enough for me to read everything her mouth will never say. There are glances only women like us will understand. Women who didn’t get to choose their thrones. Who wear rings like shackles and smile as though they don’t. Because that’s what’s expected of us.

Then Aric’s voice cuts through, and the moment shatters.

“Oskar Wilczynski.” He gestures toward a tall blond man standing just behind Marcelina, watching the exchange with sharp eyes. The same striking blue as hers. “Marcelina’s brother. Polish Syndicate.”

Oskar kisses my knuckles, murmuring something in Polish that sounds sinful even if I can’t understand a single word.

I pull my hand back—perhaps a little too quickly—and Aric’s palm finds the small of my back. A silent mine pressed into my spine.

“Hyun-seok Park,” my husband dearest continues, as if he didn’t just brand me with his hand, “South Korean Syndicate.”