Page 8 of Vow to Claim You

I hold it between us, pinched between my index and middle finger. Close enough that she can’t avoid looking at it. Close enough that the space between us narrows to nothing but white gold and a glimmering stone.

Her gaze drifts to the ring before she finally meets mine. Something flickers behind those midnight eyes. Something like a dare—like she made the first move and challenges me to make mine.

I lean in, my lips brush her ear, and lower my voice so that no one in this chapel hears what I say except her.

“I won’t be sticking this up my arse,” I murmur.

She stiffens against me, a sharp, startled breath betraying that she hadn’t expected to hear her own words thrown back at her at the altar.

“But I appreciate the suggestion. Creative. Bold. Very royal of you.”

Her jaw tightens. I can practically hear her teeth grinding.

“You will wear this ring, Princess.” I draw back until I can see her face again—those dark, furious, devastating eyes that haven’t stopped defying me since the moment I first looked into them. I take her left hand, steady her fingers in mine, and slide the ring into place above the band. “Because you’re mine now.”

Not because I want her. Not because I chose her. But because she wears my name now.

And in my world, that’s a claim.

The reception takes place in a vast venue. Gilded arches. Mosaic floors. Light filtering through carved screens like something out of an ancient tale. We move through the crowd that isn’t here to celebrate us, but to measure us. Predators in suits. Vultures with champagne flutes.

But I don’t pay attention to any of them now. I focus on her.

Her hand is small in mine. The other rests against my shoulder, light, reluctant, like she’s ready to pull away at any second. She’s stiff.

She changed after we arrived at the venue. The ceremonial gown is gone, and in its place is an off-the-shoulder white silk dress, clinging to curves I have no business noticing. Her hair is swept into a high ponytail now, leaving the elegant line of her neck bare. My eyes find it before I can stop them, but I redirect my attention before it can linger. She’s tall—five-eight, maybe—but even in heels, she barely reaches me. At six-five, I loom over her like a shadow she can’t step out of. She feels it. I see it in the tension of her jaw and in the way her gaze lands anywhere but my eyes.

The music swells. Eventually, she breaks the silence that’s been sitting between us like a third guest. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

The corner of my eye twitches, barely a smirk, more like a crack in the ice. “No.”

She gives the faintest nod.

“The man who interrupted the ceremony.” I finally give in to the nagging question, and she straightens her spine as if steadying herself. “Who was he to you?”

“My ex,” she says calmly, with that effortless elegance she carries. “But it’s over. I ended it.”

“Any more I should know about?”

Her brows twitch faintly. “No.”

I nod once. The matter’s closed.

“Listen,” I speak low, “I know we’re bound by…unusual circumstances despite our desire to do so. But if we set some rules, we might make it work.” Or more like, make it out alive.

Her expression softens with surprise, but before she can reply, the clinking of glass cuts through the air.

“A toast!” Leandro, her father, speaks, champagne flute in hand. “To my daughter and her husband! Mr. and Mrs. Vold!”

The crowd murmurs in approval, raising their glasses. Across the room, I spot my father nodding at Leandro, his expression giving nothing. Then he turns his focus to me.

“There’s no time to waste. The plane’s waiting,” Vidar says without infection.

Ayanna stiffens in my arms, turning her head toward him. “Already?”

Vidar stares at her for a moment with the faint surprise that she dared to question him. “The deal’s done. It’s time to go home.”

“But—” Ayanna looks at me, her eyes flicking like a plea she’s too proud to speak, then they search for her parents as if begging for saving. “The wedding reception has barely started. I thought⁠—”