Page 55 of Vow to Claim You

It takes a fraction of a second for the words to make sense. Then as I realize what he means, the mortification crashes over me in a single scalding wave, neck to hairline. My fingers fumble the robe closed so fast I nearly knot it.

“I—” My voice comes out strangled, and I force it level, scrambling for the composure that’s currently fleeing the country without me. “Obviously not.”

“Obviously.” That look of his hasn’t moved. If anything, it’s settled in, comfortable, like he plans to live there.

What exactly was I supposed to think when a man like Aric Vold told me to sleep with him tonight? That he wanted to discuss philosophy?

His eyes drop. A descent that feels like being undressed without a single finger lifted. Over the lace barely covering my breasts. Down the exposed length of my legs. By the time he reaches my face again, I can feel the flush climbing my throat.

“Then why,” he drawls, “are you dressed like this?”

God. I want the floor to open and swallow me. Immediately. Thank you.

“I sleep dressed like this,” I lie smoothly, because death would be preferable to admitting I walked into this room expecting him to touch me.

His eyes linger on me for a long moment.

The bastard is enjoying this.

“You don’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Because that’s not how you dressed to sleep back in Italy.”

The arsehole actually paid attention.

He comes closer until my back meets the wall. One hand braces beside my head, caging me in. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s near enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, at odds with everything cold he wears like armor. Close enough that if I breathed too deeply, my chest would brush his. Close enough that I become painfully aware of every inch between us.

And every inch that isn’t.

“I’m not going to force you,” he whispers. “I’m not that man.”

“I didn’t think⁠—”

“Good. Because I won’t touch you,” he says, lower now, “until you ask me to.”

I hate the way my breath catches. I hate the way his eyes find my throat, as though he can see my pulse going wild beneath my skin. Most of all, I hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Damn him.

“Then it might never happen,” I breathe out.

He studies me, pale eyes stripping back every defense I’ve built. Then he chuckles, and the warmth blossoms low in my chest.

“If you don’t ask…” His hand comes up, fingers sliding into my hair, palm curving along my jaw, and the touch undoes something I’d spent weeks bolting shut. “…you won’t be touched by anyone else either. We can’t cheat, remember? Rules are rules.”

“I can live without it.” My voice cracks down the middle of the words, and we both hear it. My hand lands on his arm before I can stop it—over the ink, over the warm, hard plane of muscle. My fingers curl against his skin, white-knuckling my own restraint while my body has already surrendered. And I hate that this man I was sold to is the one undoing me.

“You can keep lying to me if you need to.” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “It’s a shame the rest of you isn’t nearly as convincing.”

“You’re reading too much into it.” I try to steady my breathing and fail, because all I can focus on is his thumb on my mouth, his eyes moving between mine, the scent of him. “I already told you…I won’t ever be yours. No matter what happens between us.”

A low sound rumbles in his throat before he leans in. “Then stop looking at me,” he growls, quiet and dangerous, “like you’re already mine.”

I swallow, and I swallow hard.

The infuriating, conceited arsehole.