Page 100 of The Vow

While the other men returned to their chairs, Damon remained standing, his lethal stare trained on the man escorting me and his right hand adeptly swiping the steak knife from his place setting.

“Thanks for delivering my wife, old sport.” Damon smiled when we reached him and extended his left hand.

Peter looked confused for a second, another crease forming on his scarred face. “You’re welcome.”

He went to shake Damon’s hand, and my husband moved like lightning.

Damon grabbed his wrist, yanked him forward, slammed his hand to the table with a loud crash that rattled the china, and then nailed it to the wood with his steak knife.

Peter’s roar of pain belonged in this room. It belonged among the animals that had been slaughtered with similar cries of distress before their lives had been ended.

Peter reached for the knife, but Damon grabbed the man’s flailing arm, stopping him.

“I have a collection, too, you know,” Damon growled, hiseyes flitting to the animals on the walls. “Body parts of men who thought they could touch my wife.”

Damon twisted the knife, cutting through muscle and tendon and scraping along bone. Peter bellowed again, his eyes bulging with pain and fury.

“Mr. Belmont,” the man staked to the table pleaded, spittle flying as he gasped in agonized pants.

Belmont stared, and then his mouth curved slightly. Just like at the fundraiser, the only thing that intrigued this man was exaggerated displays of power and violence, emotional or physical. It was like his soul had been numbed to lesser displays of cruelty over the years, and now he needed a stronger dose—a harder hit to feel anything.

And then Belmont’s smile flittered away with a deep sigh of boredom. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Remington. Un-knife my man so we can continue with dinner.”

Damon hesitated purposely—and gave the knife one last excruciating turn before he wrenched it free, and Peter stumbled back.

“Clean yourself up,” Damon ordered, tossing a napkin from the table at Peter’s chest, the injured man clutching it and instantly pressing it around his wounded hand. “And while you’re at it, old sport, bring me a new steak knife.”

My heart stampeded in my chest, a cacophony of emotions dumping into my veins. Meanwhile, my husband calmly took his seat like he hadn’t just stabbed a man for touching me, the blood still staining the tabletop.

My attention whipped to the side as a young woman appeared, her eyes downcast as she filled my glass with red wine. All I could think was the color was the exact same as Peter’s blood.

She disappeared quickly, and I fought to not dwell on whatshe was made to do here and what they threatened her with if she didn’t.

Looking back to the table, I realize the chill still wrapped around my bones wasn’t from the lingering adrenaline but a persistent warning.

Uzair’s dark eyes were locked on me—had been this entire time from the other side of the table. And I knew why.

He liked women who were defiant. Women who were strong. They were histype.And then he liked to take them. Imprison them. Hurt them in indescribable ways to prove he was stronger. Superior.

“I would’ve cut off his hand,” the psychopath remarked, his eyes roaming over me like his leer was any less painful or offensive than Peter’s punishing grip. But that was Uzair; the god who rules didn’t apply. “I don’t like when anyone marks what belongs to me. Especially something so beautiful.”

The young server returned then with another steak knife for Damon, who seemed to wait purposely for it in silence, allowing Uzair to continue.

“You are quite striking, Mrs. Remington. I’ve thought so for a long time.” Uzair casually dared to mention a time when I’d almost been given to him in order to make a similar deal.Something he’d think I had no awareness of.

“You should keep my wife’s name out of your mouth, old sport,” Damon drawled, casually inspecting his new steak knife like he had a new target in his sights.

“It was simply a compliment, Mr. Remington,” Uzair replied casually.

My husband ran the blade of the knife along his finger and smiled. “And I’ve cut out tongues for less.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Amir hissed, clearly annoyed with the dick measuring contest occurring between his son and Damon. “Let’s get back to business.”

“I agree,” Belmont chimed in, tipping back as he was served his salad first. Only when he nodded his approval were the rest of us brought plates. “Although, I have to say, Mr. Remington, I didn’t realize you cared so much for your wife,” Belmont remarked, his tone far too interested to be anything but dangerous.

I reached for my wine so I wouldn’t give anything away, letting the liquid only reach my tongue before I pretended to swallow.

Damon drummed his fingers and let his head tip casually to the side. “So, if my man came in here and took one of your trophies, you wouldn’t want his hand as retribution?” He shook his head and grinned. “I’m surprised you’d be so careless with your possessions, Bernie, considering how you prize them.”

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