Page 50 of Of Oaths and Secrets

Her lips quirk into the smallest, most beautiful smile. “No,” she whispers back, her voice soft, “it wasn’t stupid at all.”

But before I can lean down to kiss her again, the security light outside comes on, blinding us. I turn around to see her mother staring at us from the window, a glass of alcohol in her hand, her expression unreadable.

"We better go. We’re more than late." Nora sighs, her voice tinged with reluctance. I don’t stop her this time as she opens the door and steps out of the car.

I walk close beside her as we head to the front door, my mind racing. I’m tempted to take her hand, but once again, I overthink it.

The taunting voice in my head—probably sounding a lot like my brother—mocking me, the great Reaper, the cold, calculated killer, giving himself an aneurysm over whether or not to hold his wife’s hand. God, I’m pathetic.

I brush the back of my hand against hers, testing the waters, but before I can take it, the door swings open. Her father stands there, eyeing her critically, his gaze sweeping over her like he’s measuring something.

I fight the urge to tell him to tone down the fake concern. He’s the one who practically blackmailed my father into this deal, and I’m still curious to know what leverage he has over my old man. I’ll find out eventually—no secret stays buried forever.

I glance at Nora, who’s smiling stiffly, a mask of politeness. Speaking of secrets, I have to remember—my wife still has a few of her own. And I intend to uncover each one.

“I baked a cake,” Nora says, nudging the bag I hadn't noticed she was holding.

“Sweetheart, that was not necessary. We don’t need more cake now, do we?” her mother replies, her tone dripping with thinly veiled condescension.

Nora's shoulders slump, and I feel the polite, considerate guest I’d planned to be fade into the background. If I have to be The Reaper with my in-laws, then so be it. No one hurts my wife. Blood or not.

“Why was it not necessary?” I ask, my voice dropping into a cold, familiar edge that makes most men rethink their choices.

Nora reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze, and I glance down, surprised at the gesture. More surprised at how much I like it.

“Nonsense, cake is always necessary,” she says quickly, her voice lightening the mood. “And if you don’t want any, I’m sure Donna and the staff will love it. I’ll be right back.” She smiles, disappearing down the corridor.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I turn my glare toward her mother. She takes an instinctive step back.

“Next time my wife brings you a cake,” I say, my voice ice cold, “I would strongly advise you to say, ‘Fantastic, thank you.’”

Her mother's eyes widen, and her face pales, but she doesn’t say anything.

That’s better.

For a brief moment, I wonder if she’ll have the nerve to say something back. But no words come, just the tension of someone who's been called out and knows they can’t win. Good. She won’t push Nora like that again—not while I’m around.

I hear quiet footsteps, and I let my gaze soften just as Nora returns. She smiles, the tension in her own shoulders easing as she sees the awkward silence between her mother and me has passed—at least for now.

“Everything alright?” she asks, looking between the two of us.

I nod. “Just fine. Your mother was saying how much she’s looking forward to trying the cake.”

Her mother forces a smile, though the strain behind it is obvious. “Yes, dear. It sounds lovely.”

Nora looks relieved. “Great! Let’s eat then. Donna told me she made my favorite!”

As we sit down, I notice Nora’s shoulders are still a little tense, but the small smile she gives me, full of gratitude, warms something inside me. Maybe I don’t need to hold her hand to show her I’m on her side. Words and actions like these will do for now.

Because one thing’s for sure—I’m not letting anyone make her feel less than she is.

Not even her family.

Chapter Thirteen

Nora

Ithrow the ball to Fate, who runs like a mad dog to catch it, and I can’t help but laugh. Today is a good day—the pain only simmers beneath the surface, something I can easily push to the back of my mind. The cool autumn air brushes against my skin, reminding me of the peace in these small moments. But even now, the memory of Rafaele’s kiss presses at the edges of my thoughts, refusing to fade. It was more than I ever expected—so passionate, so hungry. But afterward, he was cool again, as if it had never happened.

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