Page 49 of Vengeful Vows

Her elation grows tenfold when I peel back the red ribbon tied around the glossy white box in haste before popping open the lid.

Air whizzes between my teeth when I drink in the dress Ark purchased for me. It looks as regal in the box as I felt while I was wearing it, but Tillie doesn’t pay it an ounce of attention. Her eyes are steadfast on the invitation that arrived with the one-of-a-kind custom gown.

It is for Ark’s fortieth birthday party, and her name is cited next to mine.

“Can we go, Mommy?Please.I’ll do all my chores and clean my room.” She races inside, prepared to start her promise now if it gives her a chance to attend a celebration I usually decline before she sees the invite. “And you won’t even have to buy me a new dress.” Her beaming-with-joy eyes lock on to the glossy white box. “There’s plenty of material in there for the both of us.”

21

ARKADIY

“What the hell are you doing?”

My eyes shoot to Mara, arched over the top rung of a wooden ladder, to Rafael, watching her daring maneuver from the safety of an armchair in the corner of the room.

“And what the fuck are you doing watching her?”

I don’t give him a chance to answer. I enter the den faster than I exited my office when my mother blindsided me for the umpteenth time the past week and stabilize the wobbles of an ancient-looking ladder before Mara can hurt herself.

“Down. Now.”

“Ark.” Mara starts her defense with a giggle, downplaying my panic as if it is irrational. “The chandeliers are d-dusty, and you have a ton of guests arriving next weekend.”

The ladder wobbles in the aftermath of her shudder when I say, “I don’t give a fuck if they’re covered with cobwebs. I didn’t hire you to clean the chandeliers. Down.Now!”

With my snapped command leaving no room for arguing, Mara commences climbing down. Her scent gets stronger with each rung she descends—as does the firmness of my cock.

That is the exact smell I seek anytime I shower, and the exact smell my mother is using against me to paint me as an evolving monster. She said it is too innocent for a “real man” to find appealing, and anyone who believes otherwise should seek a psych evaluation.

Halfway down, Mara mumbles, “I don’t understand why you hired me, Ark. The toilets, showers, and sinks are cleaned every morning before I arrive, and all the beds are m-made. I’ve got nothing to do but dust chandeliers and polish silverware.”

I’m stolen the chance to relish how fast her stutter is lessening in my presence when Rafael mumbles under his breath, “It isn’t the silverware he wants you to polish.”

My glare would have more heat if I hadn’t noticed how much Mara’s confidence thrives from his multiple underhanded comments that I want her. The self-assurance that flourishes in her eyes makes her even more fascinating, and it has me hopeful I can block out my mother’s hurtful comments for just an hour.

That’s all I want—an hour of peace. Then maybe my head will stop thumping as ruefully as my heart does anytime I force myself to walk away from Mara instead of walking toward her.

My mother hasn’t stopped harping in my ear for the past two weeks. I’m at the end of my tether. Her prolonged visit to Myasnikov has put me in such a bad mood everyone is avoiding me—even the woman who has had more impact on my life in weeks than my mother has had in decades.

“What is it? Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself?” I ask Mara when a hiss follows her final step down from the ladder.

“It’s n-nothing.”

This woman’s ability to lie is as woeful as her ability to sit still. I kept on the cleaning service company Val helms to ensure Mara didn’t need to clean toilets and make beds for a living, but it seems as if she would rather be elbow deep in shit than sit around, twiddling her thumbs all day.

I’ve caught her scrubbing the inside of the wall oven, cleaning the tracks of the windows, and rearranging the linen cupboard this week alone.

Now, she’s dusting the damn chandeliers.

If she had the appropriate equipment, she would have scaled the building by now to clean the floor-to-ceiling window of my office from the outside. I do not doubt that.

Mara has work ethics by the bucketload. Veronika—the woman who refused to leave town until she received the whole nine yards for our “date” multiple media agencies ran as front-page news—can’t say the same.

She didn’t even show up to the etiquette class my mother organized for her, hoping it would have me seeing her in a different light, because it was scheduled to start at 10 a.m.

She stood across from my mother, the very essence of a woman who would sell her soul to the devil for the right amount of coin, and told her she doesn’t get out of bed before midday for anything or anyone.

Her lack of interest in bettering herself proves she isn’t the woman to stand by my side, but my mother isn’t convinced. She’s confident that once the “hero complex” fueling my obsession with Mara wears off, I’ll be grateful Veronika is in the wings, ready to swoop in and save the day.

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