Page 93 of Filthy Promises

The elevator opens on my floor. I stride down the hallway, my key shaking in my hand. As I approach my door, I notice another man stationed at the end of the corridor. This one does an extremely half-assed job of pretending to check his phone.

“Jesus Christ, they’re everywhere.”

Vince says nothing, just waits while I unlock my door. God, his silences are as infuriating as the times he chooses to speak. I can’t decide which I’d prefer.

I step inside my tiny apartment. With him here, I’m seeing it through his eyes—the secondhand furniture, the faded paint, the single window with its depressing view of bird shit and bricks.

My life laid bare, small and shabby compared to his world of luxury and power.

But it’s mine. It’s safe. It’s normal.

Or it was.

Untilhecame into it.

I spin to face him. “You had no right,” I repeat, fury building. “No right to put men outside my home, to watch me, to control my life like this.”

“For the last fucking time, I’m not controlling you,” he counters, closing the door behind him. “I’m protecting you.”

“I don’t want your protection! I want my life back!”

“That’s not possible anymore.”

“Because you decided it’s not?” I step closer, anger making me bold. “Who gave you the right to make that decision for me?”

His eyes darken. “The moment those men targeted my car, with you inside it, this became non-negotiable.”

We’re standing toe to toe now, my face tilted up to his, his breath mingling with mine. The air between us crackles with tension—anger, yes, but something else, too.

“You think I want this?” he asks, voice dropping low. “You think I want you in danger? You think I want men watching your every move?”

“I think you want to control everything and everyone around you,” I retort. “And I won’t be controlled, Vince.”

His eyes flash. “Is that what you think this is? Control?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, Rowan.” He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head further back to maintain eye contact. “This is me doing whatever it takes to keep you safe. Because the thought of those men getting to you—” He breaks off, jaw tight with barely contained emotion.

A knot shifts in me, anger mingling with a different heat entirely. God, I’m so fucking mad at him—and yet, the intensity of his concern cuts through my rage.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me,” I say again, but my voice has lost some of its fire.

“You didn’t have to.” His hand comes up, fingers grazing the cut on my cheek. “This happened because of me. Because you were with me. I won’t let it happen again.”

I shouldn’t lean into his touch. I should step away, maintain the rage that’s my only defense against the overwhelming pull of this man.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

“I’m still furious with you,” I whisper.

“I know.” His thumb brushes across my lower lip, his eyes tracking the movement. “Be furious. Be anything you want. But be alive to feel it.”

The space between us shrinks to nothing. My hands find his chest, half-pushing, half-clutching. His heart pounds beneath my palm, its rhythm matching my own frantic pulse.

“Vince…” I breathe, not sure if it’s a warning or a plea.

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