Page 54 of Filthy Promises

I feel Rowan stiffen beside me. Interesting. Is that jealousy?

Rowan presents as so meek and demure. I call her doe for a reason—she looks like she’d run for her life at the first sight of something with fangs. But the simplest mention of Grigor’s daughter and I can feel her bristling. Through the tiniest brush of shoulder-to-shoulder contact, her boiling jealousy heats me up.

The funniest part?

I fucking like it.

I like knowing that perhaps, in the middle of all this pomp and bullshit, she’s thinking of me and Irina. Or is it me and Vanessa still occupying her thoughts? Some sick part of me is putting myself in her head, inventing fantasies for her.

Rowan snatching Vanessa by her hair, throwing her aside, and taking that spot on the spot for herself.

Rowan punching Irina in the face and claiming a place on the altar next to me.

Rowan wanting what she knows she can never have. Rowan burning up with the need for it.

Rowan, Rowan, always fucking Rowan.

“If you’ll excuse us,” I say to Grigor, “I see the Nakamuras have arrived. We have business to discuss.”

Grigor nods, understanding the real meaning behind my words. The Japanese shipment. The routes we discussed in that meeting Rowan attended.

“Of course. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. St. Clair,” he says, kissing her hand again. “I suspect we’ll be seeing much more of each other.”

I guide Rowan away, my hand still at the small of her back. The silk of her dress is warm beneath my palm.

“Was that okay?” she whispers once we’re out of earshot. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“You were perfect,” I tell her. “Grigor Petrov is an important business associate. His approval matters.”

“He seemed to like me.”

“He did. Too much, maybe.” The possessive edge in my voice surprises even me.

Her eyes widen as she reads into my reaction for all the wrong reasons. “Is he dangerous?”

I laugh softly. “Everyone here is dangerous in their own way, Rowan. That’s the first lesson you need to learn.”

I lead her through the crowd, nodding at acquaintances, stopping occasionally to exchange pleasantries. I introduce her to each person we meet—some legitimate businesspeople, others with connections to my world that she couldn’t begin to imagine.

She handles each introduction flawlessly. Takes mental notes, as instructed. Smiles at the right moments. Speaks when spoken to, but never overreaches.

It’s like watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis.

“You’re a natural at this,” I tell her as we make our way toward the bar.

“I’m just following your lead,” she demurs.

“No. You’re adapting. Learning. Most people can’t do that so quickly.”

Her smile is genuine this time. “Thank you.”

I order us fresh drinks, studying her profile as she surveys the room. She has a nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

“I’m trying to make sense of it all,” she admits. “Who knows who. Who matters to you.”

“And?”

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