Page 56 of Filthy Promises

My father’s eyes narrow. “Be careful, Vincent. Want is a dangerous thing in our world. I taught you better than that.”

“You taught me to recognize value where others don’t look,” I counter. “To see opportunities where others see obstacles.”

He studies me for a long moment, then glances back at Rowan, who stands alone at the bar, her posture straight, her eyes scanning the room like she’s memorizing faces.

“She’s pretty, I’ll grant you that,” he finally says. “But pretty fades. Loyalty is what lasts.”

“I’m working on that part,” I tell him.

He sighs heavily. “Don’t make me regret giving you control, son. Some mistakes can’t be undone.”

With that warning, he walks away, leaving me to consider his words.

I turn back to look at Rowan, catching her eye across the crowded room. She smiles, tentative but genuine, and something unnamed shifts inside me.

My father is right about one thing: wanting is dangerous.

But so am I.

17

ROWAN

Vince returns from his conversation with his father looking more tense than when he left.

I try to decipher what passed between them, but his face is a marble mask once again. All business. All control.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he rejoins me at the bar.

“Fine.” He tosses back the remainder of his scotch and orders another. “My father has… opinions.”

“About me?”

His eyes flick to mine. “About everything.”

A server passes with a tray of champagne flutes. I grab one, needing something to do with my hands, even though the alcohol I’ve already had is buzzing in my veins, casting a pleasant golden haze over everything happening in and around me.

“He didn’t seem thrilled to see me,” I say carefully.

Vince’s mouth quirks. “My father is rarely thrilled about anything.”

“What did he want to talk to you about?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” His tone makes it clear the subject is closed.

I take a sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles dance on my tongue. This is probably the most expensive drink I’ve ever had. Everything about tonight feels surreal—the dress I’m wearing, the company I’m keeping, the way Vince’s eyes keep returning to me despite the room full of people vying for his attention.

“Come,” he says, placing his hand at the small of my back again. “There’s someone else you should meet.”

I let him guide me through the crowd, hyperaware of his touch, the heat of his palm through the silk. It feels possessive in a way that should offend me but somehow doesn’t.

Come to think of it, all of this should offend me but somehow doesn’t. Vince dressed me up like a Barbie doll, but not only did I not balk, I actually can’t stop looking at myself in every reflective surface. Standing next to him and catching a glimpse of us in a mirror along the wall makes me shiver with an uncontrollable glee. It looksrightin a way I can’t explain.

Conveying me around the room with a hand on my hip like I’m some dog trotting alongside him should piss me off, too. Does it? No, not at all. Ilikebeing at his side. Ilikethe pressure of his palm, the heat of it, the tether that keeps me leashed to him while he purrs my name again and again to men who pretend not to look at me for too long because they know, just like I do, that Vince would gut any man who gawks.

I like it all.

I like it all too much.

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