Page 190 of Filthy Promises

“They’re ready,” he says, looking meaningfully toward a set of closed doors at the far end of the room.

Vince nods, then turns to me. “The council is assembled. It’s time to make our announcement official.”

The fluttering in my chest turns into full-blown panic. “Council? What council? You said this was just a party!”

“The Bratva council,” he clarifies, as if that’s supposed to be either explanatory or reassuring. “They need to formally acknowledge our engagement for it to have weight in our world.”

I stare at his outstretched hand, suddenly aware of how real this all is.

My stomach lurches.

“Do you have any ficuses on hand I could throw up in?”

Vince immediately kneels beside my chair, one hand coming to rest on my knee. It’s the most he’s touched me since I agreed to return, and the warmth of his palm seeps through the silk of my dress in a way that means more to me than I’d ever admit out loud.

“Look at me,” he says quietly. “You can do this. You’re stronger than any of them realize.”

“I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m just a stupid girl who has made a series of increasingly catastrophic life choices.”

“You’re the woman who hid evidence from the FBI for me. Who survived being hunted by Solovyov’s men. Who’s carrying my child and still has the courage to put me in my place when I deserve it.” His voice drops even lower, a whisper meant for my ears alone. “You belong at my side, Rowan. No matter what any of them think.”

Something in his words steadies me. Not because I fully believe them—I’m still not sure I belong anywhere in this world—but becausehedoes.

Whatever else has happened between us, whatever lies and manipulations brought us to this point, Vince’s belief in me seems genuine.

It’s a little floatie to hold onto in this ocean of uncertainty. Not a lot, but something.

“Okay,” I say. I swallow the nausea and use his hand to rise to my feet. “Let’s go convince a room full of murderers that the mousy American is worthy of their future leader.”

His fingers tighten around mine. “You won’t have to convince them of anything. That’s my job.”

He leads me toward the imposing double doors, Arkady falling into step behind us like a golden-haired shadow. As we approach, the crowd parts.

I spot Andrei standing near the doors. Our eyes meet briefly, and a chill runs through me at the memory of his fingers around my throat.

Vince notices my tension and moves to block me from him.

The doors swing open to reveal a room I haven’t seen before in my limited explorations of the estate. It’s a library, but unlike any library I’ve ever visited. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. A gargantuan table dominates the center, around which sit twelve men of various ages, all watching our entrance with piercing focus.

My hand instinctively finds my stomach again.We’re safe,I tell my baby.Vince won’t let anything happen to us.

Vince guides me to the head of the table. His father takes the seat at the opposite end, creating a visual standoff that even I can understand the symbolism of.

“Gentlemen,” Vince addresses the room in a voice that carries none of the gentleness he just showed me. “I’ve called this council to formally announce my betrothal to Rowan St. Clair, who will become my wife before the month is out.”

A murmur ripples around the table. An older man with a gray beard leans forward. “So it’s true. This is… unexpected, Vincent. We were led to believe you were considering other alliances.”

“Plans change,” Vince says simply. “Ms. St. Clair is carrying my child. She will be my wife and the mother of the next Akopov heir.”

“The child could still be legitimized through other arrangements,” another man suggests. “There is no need to rush into marriage with an outsider.”

Before Vince can answer, I step forward. “I’m standing right here,” I say, my voice shaking only slightly. “And this ‘outsider’ has a name. He just told it to you.”

The room falls silent. Twelve pairs of eyes flit to me with expressions ranging from shock to outrage. Even Vince looks surprised, though not displeased.

“Ms. St. Clair,” the bearded man begins, his tone condescending, “this is a matter for the brotherhood to?—”

“This is a matter concerning my child,” I interrupt. “And while I may not understand all the protocols and politics of your little club, I understand that much.”

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