Page 51 of Vow to Claim You

One is sunshine.

The other is a snowstorm.

Unfortunately for me, I married the snowstorm.

The snowstorm in question walks toward the table and pulls my chair out, looking at me with that stillness that gives nothing away. I step into place and lower myself into it, and his scent reaches me, and I inhale it despite myself.

Then I watch one of the household staff pour coffee, determined to focus on that rather than the man whose arm comes to rest an inch from mine as he takes his seat.

For a moment, the atmosphere feels almost normal. Until Vidar speaks, and every trace of warmth dies instantly.

“Now that we’ve settled old matters”—his voice is a low rasp roughened by the cancer slowly hollowing him out—“it’s time we move forward.” His pale gaze, the same glacial blue as his son’s, slides between us. “You’re married. The past has been dealt with. What remains is to fulfill the terms of the contract. An heir. That is the purpose of this union.”

My fingers tighten around my fork I had just picked up.

Aric’s jaw shifts—the faintest tightening, there and gone. “It’s been days, Father.” His voice stays level, but I’ve learned to hear the blade underneath the calm. “Spare us the urgency. The ink’s barely dry.”

“Days I don’t have.” Vidar’s fingers drum against the wood. “You think I have the luxury of patience? Look at me.” He doesn’t raise his voice, just like Aric never does. “I want to see the next Vold before I’m in the ground, and you’re treating this marriage like an experiment.”

“An experiment,” Aric reiterates dryly.

“You gave her too much freedom,” Vidar barks, and I nearly choke.

Excuse me?

Too much freedom?

What century are we in?

My gaze drifts to Aric. His expression remains perfectly neutral. Dangerously neutral.

Across the table, Eero suddenly becomes fascinated by his breakfast.

“Separate bedrooms. Free rein for her to come and go as she pleases.” Vidar’s mouth curls, contempt thinning his lips. “You handle a wife the way you’d handle a guest. That’s not a marriage, Aric. That’s indulgence. And indulgence doesn’t produce heirs.”

Heat prickles up my spine—not from shame, but fury. I’m not a broodmare to be priced over breakfast. I open my mouth, the retort already sharp on my tongue when Aric stands. The chair scrapes against the floor, and before I understand what’s happening, his hand closes over mine.

I go still.

He’s touching me.

Aric—who never reaches for me, who measures every gesture like a man rationing bullets, who keeps a careful inch of cold air between us at all times—has wrapped his hand around mine. And it doesn’t feel calculated. It doesn’t feel like a performance staged for his father’s benefit. It feels like instinct. Like his body moved before his control could catch it. Like he reached for me without deciding to.

My pulse stumbles.

“You are behaving like a man playing house instead of building a family,” his father continues.

“We’re done here.” Aric’s tone is bone-dry, laced with the kind of mockery only a man who fears nothing can afford.

Vidar’s eyes narrow to slits. “And where do you think you’re going?”

Aric doesn’t even look at him. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“And I am rapidly losing my patience.”

The two men stare at each other, and for the first time, I understand exactly where Aric gets it from.

The stubbornness. The control. That frightening calm. The resemblance is impossible to ignore.