Page 10 of Vengeful Vows

My eyes lift from the illuminated LED lighting trim on the door when Ark asks, “Address?”

“Um…” I fumble through my purse to find the card the bowling alley owner gave me last month when I booked Tillie’s party, then hand it to Ark. “He-here. Please.” Realizing how rude I sound, I quickly add, “Or anywhere close to there. You-you don’t need to take me the whole way. I’m sure you’re busy.”

He twists his lips as if considering my suggestion. He isn’t. He recites the address in full to the driver via an intercom button next to his seat before sinking back as if settling in for a long commute.

I try to do the same. I rest my balled hands on my lap and let my eyes wander to the scenery whizzing by my window when we exit the Chrysler building at a speed too fast to be classed as safe.

Given how fast his driver maneuvers us through a growing swarm of the press, anyone would think the numerous clicks of paparazzi cameras are for Ark.

Their prying ways remind me of how rudely I trampled over Ark’s privacy earlier, and that I’ve yet to issue him the apology he deserves.

“I’m sorry about ea-earlier. I promise I knocked.”

“It’s fine,” he replies, though I can tell he’s lying.

I don’t know him well enough to read his expressions, but I feel the groove between his brows is a telltale sign. It smoothed when I mentioned my trigger about blocked exits, but it returned more potent than ever when he told his driver he wasn’t worried about the mess.

It isn’t as deep as earlier, but it’s still very much present.

I choke on my spit when Ark takes our conversation in an unexpected direction. “What is your name?”

I try not to stutter, but it is nearly impossible when corresponding with a member of the opposite sex. “Ma-Mara.”

“Mara?” It sounds far more feminine when he says it, and it has me hopeful I can one day share it without stuttering.

When Ark arches a brow, waiting for confirmation of his question, I nod.

He twists his lips into a ghostlike grin. “I like it. It is short and easy to spell.”

A breathy sigh whistles between my teeth. “That’s exactly w-why I picked it.”

I snap my mouth shut, realizing I said too much too loudly.

I’ve never been so reckless.

My concern about making irreversible mistakes is brief. Ark’s laugh is as captivating as his handsome face. It carries through my body before clustering in an area I didn’t realize could hold its own pulse.

“Hence me going by Ark.” He wets his lips again and adjusts his position to face me more directly. “If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me to spell my name, I’d have…”

When he pauses, I suggest, “Enough to have a driver on s-standby?”

He doesn’t take my comment as snarky. I’m glad, as that was not my intention. If you earn your money legitimately, I am more than happy to give you the praise you deserve.

Tall poppy syndrome isn’t in my vocabulary.

Ark’s eyes gleam with roguishness as he replies, “That, and perhaps a little more.”

My confidence feeds off his playfulness. “Do you have a preference for what I sh-should call you? Do you prefer Ark or Arkadiy?” When I recall how the driver and the doorman greeted him, I add, “Or perhaps s-sir?”

He contemplates my question longer than expected before saying, “Ark or Arkadiy is fine. Just don’t call me Mr. Orlov. That is my stepfather’s surname, not mine.”

The groove between his brows is back deeper than ever, so I do my best to dispel it. “No-noted.”

Ark doesn’t follow my lead in keeping things casual. He forces a similar groove between my brows by asking, “Do you always stutter or only when nervous?”

“Um.” I fiddle with my skirt, trying to distract my head from the techniques my speech therapist taught me. “I… ah…”

My breath catches when Ark leans across to still my fidgeting hands. It’s the simplest of touches, but instead of adding to the shudders that forever affect my vocal cords, it does the opposite. My shakes ease, and a fiery burn bubbles low in my stomach.

---