Page 70 of The Vow

I couldn’t really argue with that. If Sinclair knew anything, there would’ve been a full-blown assault on Damon, not a warning text from Sandrine.

“But if he suspects?”

“If he does, then it’s all the more reason I need you here,” he said, the angle of his jaw feathering with the flex of the muscle underneath.

Swallowing, I read between the lines. If I were there, and things went south, I would be used as leverage against Damon. I would be his weakness.

“Okay,” I conceded, though the twist of my stomach seemed to only tighten. “Text me as soon as you know…”

“It’s going to be okay,” he promised instead, his lips hunting for mine once more. “I will protect you.”

“And who protects you?”

The only answer I got was the warmth of his mouth on mine. And when he walked out the door, I tried not to fear the absolute worst.

In the end, my imagined absolute worst was nothing compared to what actually happened.

One hour later…

I called once. That was our protocol. And when the call went to voicemail, I tapped out our coded message and sent it.

Is the chicken in the fridge still good?

Ayesmeant that he was still okay. Anomeant otherwise.But no response?

No. I forced myself to breathe slowly. Damon was trained. Skilled. He was prepared for all kinds of situations and had access to resources in case of any emergency.

He was fine.

But if he wasn’t…I pressed my hand to my throat, coaxing it to work over the lump that obstructed it.

One of the rules of our agreement was that under no circumstances was I to put myself in danger to help him. I wasn’t an agent. I wasn’t trained. I was a civilian he never should’ve let on the inside.

But those rules were made before our marriage. Before I’d sworn to protect him for better or for worse.Before I’d fallen in love with him.

I walked out of the apartment ten minutes later, never more sure of my destination and my intent than when I checked my phone one last time and saw no reply.

Something was wrong.

The wind hosed a steady stream of cold on my face as I approached Sinclair’s home. The street was as quiet as ever. The bowels of winter holding everyone tight to the clutches oftheir warm homes. The sky was overcast, blotting out the sun and any sense of what time it could be.

On the walk over, I rationalized that if something had happened to Damon, if Sinclair had realized Damon’s intentions, he would’ve had men at the apartment looking. And Damon would’ve found a way to warn me. To get me to safety.

Reaching the front door, I slipped the key from my pocket. One of the few levels of access we still had into Sinclair’s life, and solely because of Sandrine.

Sliding soundlessly through the entrance, I closed the door to an empty hall. The silence broke a second later with angry male voices coming from the direction of the dining room.

As I’d done countless times over the last six months, I walked with swift familiarity through the layout of the Sinclair house, choosing a path through the shadowed living room rather than the lit hallway.

The closer I drew to the voices, I realized two things. First, neither voice was Sandrine’s or Damon’s. And second, Sinclair was talking, and he wasn’t happy. No, he was furious.

In all these months, Sinclair always had a relatively even keel over his emotions. There were flickers of annoyance, some curt tones of disapproval, but never anger. Maybe because I’d only ever interacted with him in a social setting, but I couldn’t recall a time when I’d seen Sinclair angry, let alone raise his voice.

Damon warned that Sinclair’s anger had an easy tell. Like that of a rattlesnake, the man’s voice took on a trembling hiss before his rage lashed out.

“You’ve tracked her phone? My daughter’s?His?Frozen her cards?” Sinclair demanded, his rattling tone carrying louder. “They couldn’t have gotten far.”

Gotten far. Sandrine. Daria. Damon.

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