Page 2 of Ruined Vows

I haven’t been for a while.

So maybe this is it. Maybe this is what starting feels like.

Moira’s sharp squeal slices through the low hum of the club, and my attention snaps to her like a reflex. It’s definitely not Big Rick’s doing—he’s still grinding away, oblivious to the fact that her orgasm’s about as real as his dom credentials.

She untangles herself from the sex swing, slipping off his cock. She lifts her phone, grinning so big and wild, her teeth shine bright under the dim lights.

“Isaak!” she shouts across the room. Her high-pitched voice cuts through the thrum of bass. “They’re here!”

Quinn glances up from her sparkling soda, raising an eyebrow without bothering to lift her foot from the sub kneeling beneath her.

I push to my feet and my shoulders snap back. I can’t help it; my body slides into that familiar posture out of habit. Alert. Controlled. It’s not anxiety, exactly. It’s just that, when you know what I know, there’s a sharp edge to the air. Like the moment right before a fight starts. The shift before impact.

Impact never comes when you’re expecting it. So you learn to always expect it.

Moira’s already bounding toward me, her robe gaping open, tits bouncing as she comes. She doesn’t close her robe until right before she gets to me. Modesty’s a foreign word to Moira. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes.

She grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so reckless. “C’mon, c’mon! I can’t wait for you to meet her!”

I let her drag me forward, her excitement spilling over, infectious in a way I refuse to acknowledge.

When we hit the front hallway, she drops my arm, huffing like I’m slowing her down. Which, technically, I am—but I move deliberately. I don’t rush into anything. Not people. Not rooms. Not trouble. Especially not trouble.

The front lobby is empty, the dim lights casting long shadows across the polished floor. Moira bounces on the balls of her feet, peering out the glass door with the restless energy of someone incapable of stillness. She throws a flirty grin at Kit, the door security guard, who barely reacts. Though I don’t miss the wink he sends her. Another one bites the dust. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes this time.

I plant myself near the wall, feet spaced just right, hands clasped behind my back, thumbs hooked—a stance carved into me from years of training. At ease but never off guard.

The door finally swings open, letting in a slice of cool night air along with Anna, who barely gets two steps inside before Moira launches at her like a missile. They collide with squeals and laughter, the kind of affection that’s both genuine and obnoxious in equal measure.

Domhnall steps in next, his expression softening the moment he sees Anna—a look that would’ve been unthinkable before she came back from Chicago. The man was all sharp edges and bite the whole year she was gone. Now he’s just… I watch the dopey way he grins down at his fiancé. Now he’s just happy. Love’s a hell of a drug, I guess.

Finally, she walks in.

I’ve clocked her before at the club—a flash of red curls, sharp glasses perched on a narrow nose, always watching, never participating. She’s dressed like money, sleek black fabric hugging her body in all the right places. Her posture’s straight and her chin tilts with just enough arrogance to make it look natural.

She shrugs off her jacket without hesitation, glancing around for somewhere to hang it.

And then she hands it to me.

Like I’m the coat check.

For half a second, I just stare at her, her fingers brushing mine as if I’m invisible. Technically, she’s not wrong. I am staff. But it’s the way she does it—like I’m a fixture, part of the scenery, something expected and unremarkable—that grates under my skin.

I’ve met her kind before. Born with silver spoons and gold-plated entitlement. The kind that never has to say please because the world’s already on its knees for them.

Anna notices the awkward beat and rushes over, plucking the coat from my hand with an apologetic smile. “Oh! Sorry. Kira, this is Isaak. Domhnall’s friend. The one we talked about—he might replace your bodyguard.”

Domhnall’s friend. Guess that’s my résumé now.

Kira tilts her head back to look at me. And then further back. She’s small—compact in a way that makes her seem delicate, though I’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“Hi,” she says, her voice softer than I expect, like she’s not used to speaking first. There’s a slight hitch to it, a breathlessness she probably hates revealing.

She extends her hand, perfectly polite, fingers slim and precise like the rest of her. A neat little package of control and curated charm.

I don’t take it.

“A pleasure,” I grunt instead, turning on my heel. “This way. We’ll discuss terms inside.”

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