Page 7 of Vow to Claim You

“It’s just an arrangement,” he whispers, his lips brushing against mine before closing the tiny gap with that bitter sentence. A sentence meant to cut, to remind me I’m nothing more than a contract. A transaction.

My fists clench at my sides, every muscle taut with towering fury as his lips press against mine with the kind of restraint that suggests he could burn the world but chooses to scorch only me.

“Just an arrangement,” he repeats as he pulls back, still hovering just an inch away.

Fairy tales lie. This isn’t the kiss to wake the princess. It’s the kiss that seals her coffin.

CHAPTER FOUR

Aric

The priest’s words barely register.

You may kiss the bride.

I lift the sheer fabric as though peeling away her shield. And there she is. My enemy. My obligation. My bride.

She’s beautiful, yes. Infuriatingly so. The kind of beauty that could tempt any man to sin just to taste the ruin. The kind of beauty that’s dangerous, designed to break men down to nothing. The kind of beauty that makes me want her. Any man in my place would.

But it changes nothing. I don’t care. I won’t have feelings for her, nor she for me. I can see it in her eyes—black as midnight, filled with hatred. The kind of hatred that makes me still in place. A reminder of what this is. What we are. At its core, it’s a pact. A transaction. Two strangers bound by signatures to end a war and secure an alliance neither of us chose.

She looks at me like she’d rather die than stand here.

Fair enough. The feeling isn’t far off.

And then there’s pain.

The kind that ignites a fury I can’t explain. She looks like the saddest bride in history, and for some incomprehensible reason, the sight of it gets under my skin.

She doesn’t want me. Doesn’t even try to hide it.

I shouldn’t care less, so why don’t I?

I grip her chin between my fingers, forcing her gaze to collide with mine, and I swear I feel her pulse racing against my touch. Whether it’s fear or fury, makes no difference.

My jaw tightens imperceptibly, locking my expression into stone. I was raised to conceal my emotions—joy, rage, suffering, desire.

I lean closer, my mouth a breath from hers. “It’s just an arrangement,” I whisper, as much to myself as to her.

Is it a reminder? A warning?

Maybe a lie.

Then I press my lips against hers, merely to end this ridiculous ritual. She trembles but doesn’t pull back. Her breath hitches, body quivers, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s praying for rescue.

Too late for that.

She’s mine now.

Her gaze drops after the kiss, settling somewhere around my collar as though she can’t quite bring herself to look at me. Her lips are pressed into a tight line—the ghost of my mouth still on them, unwelcome and unacknowledged.

I slip my hand into my jacket pocket.

Her gaze follows instinctively as though she expects me to reach for a gun.

Given the circumstances, I don’t blame her.

But I’m not reaching for a weapon. I’m reaching for a ring. The engagement ring. The one I sent with Zhang. The one she returned in its velvet box, a folded note tucked beside the diamond like a grenade wrapped in silk.