Page 88 of Filthy Promises

I pull my hand from his, needing distance to think clearly. “And if I stay, what does that mean exactly? Am I your employee? Your mistress? Your prisoner?”

He does not answer.

I gulp again and decide perhaps that’s for the best.

“And what about your father’s marriage ultimatum?” I press. “The deadline to choose a bride?”

“That’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it for me, Vince.”

He sighs, turning to pace the length of the living room. “My father has given me two months to choose a bride from his approved list. If I don’t, I lose everything—the company, the Bratva, my inheritance.”

“And I’m not on that list,” I guess.

“No.” He stops, facing me again. “You’re definitely not.”

“So what am I? A distraction until you marry someone ‘suitable’?”

“You’re a complication,” he says, echoing his words from the car. “An unexpected variable that’s forced me to reconsider my plans.”

“What plans?”

He approaches again, this time reaching for my face, his palm warm against my cheek. “I intended to choose one of myfather’s candidates. Make a business arrangement disguised as a marriage. Take control of my birthright and continue as I always have.”

“And now?”

His thumb brushes over my lower lip. “Now, I find myself reluctant to proceed as planned.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest, despite everything. “Because of me?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t offer pretty words or promises. Just that stark admission.

I close my eyes, leaning into his touch despite myself. The events of the night are catching up to me—the car crash, the attack, the killing. My body aches. My head pounds. Exhaustion seeps into my bones.

“I can’t think about this now,” I admit. “I’m too tired.”

“Then don’t think.” Vince’s voice is soft. “Just rest. We can talk more when you’ve slept.”

He leads me down a hallway to a bedroom—not his, I notice, but a guest room with a king-sized bed and more of those floor-to-ceiling windows, now covered with blackout curtains. The bed is already turned down, as if he knew this is where I’d end up.

“Sleep,” he says again, stepping back. “You’re safe here. No one can reach this floor without my authorization.”

I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of how utterly wrung out I am.

“Vince,” I call as he turns to leave. “I still don’t know what I want. Or what I’m going to do.”

He pauses in the doorway. “I know.”

“But there’s one thing I am sure of.”

“What’s that?”

I meet his gaze steadily. “I’m not afraid of you. Even after what I saw tonight. I’m afraid of your world, of what might happen next. But not of you.”

He lingers. I don’t know what to call the look on his face: relief, melancholy, something more, something less, something different.

“You should be,” he says softly. “Afraid of me, I mean.”

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