Page 184 of Filthy Promises

I pause and search his face.

I spent five years dreaming of it, memorizing it from every angle except for straight-on. I know it so, so well.

But it’s changed.

The harsh angles of his jaw are now covered in dark stubble that’s more unkempt than I’ve ever seen it. The silver streaks in his hair catch the cheap motel light. His eyes—those devastating blue eyes—are bloodshot and haunted, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. There’s a small cut at the corner of his lip that wasn’t there yesterday.

He looks wrecked. Dangerous. Desperate.

I hate how much I still want him.

“If—and this is a very big if,” I say slowly, “I were to consider your proposal, I would have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“Separate bedrooms,” I begin. “At least until I decide otherwise. I can’t… I can’t be intimate with you again. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

He nods once, accepting this without argument.

“I also want a prenuptial agreement that protects my independence. My own bank accounts, too. And my own security that doesn’t report to you. Privacy.”

“Done.”

“Plus guaranteed medical care for my mother, regardless of what happens between us.”

“Already arranged.”

“Most of all, I want complete honesty going forward.” I meet his gaze unflinchingly. “I want access to everything you know about me, about my father, about this whole situation.”

He hesitates at this last condition.

“What?” I challenge. “Is that where you draw the line? At actual honesty?”

“No,” he says carefully. “But there are things in my world—in our world now—that are dangerous to know. Information that puts you at risk simply by possessing it.”

“I’m already at risk,” I point out. “And I’d rather face danger with my eyes open than be blindsided again.”

He considers this for a long moment, then nods. “Alright. Complete transparency. But in return, you have to accept additional security measures. Non-negotiable.”

“Fine.” I stand, needing to move, to think. “Is that all?”

“One more thing.” He rises as well, watching me pace. “I want your word that you’ll give us a real chance. That this won’t just be a convenient arrangement for the baby’s sake. That you’ll at least try to… to find your way back to me.”

I stop pacing, turning to face him. “I can’t promise that, Vince.”

“Then promise to try,” he presses. “That’s all I’m asking. Try to remember what we had before. What we could have again.”

“I’ll try,” I whisper, opening my eyes to meet his. “But I’m not making any promises beyond that.”

Relief washes over his face. “That’s enough. For now.” He reaches for me, then stops himself. “May I?”

I nod stiffly, allowing him to take my hand. His touch, once electric, now feels complicated—comforting and disturbing all at once.

“I will earn back your trust, Rowan St. Clair,” he swears with quiet intensity. “Whatever it takes. However long it takes.”

I wish I could believe him. Part of me even does. But as I stand in a seedy motel room, holding hands with the man who’s broken and rebuilt me more times than I can count, I make one more promise: a silent one, to myself.

This time, my walls stay up.

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