Page 194 of Filthy Promises

“If you wake up tomorrow and decide this isn’t what you want—if you can’t see a future where you might someday forgive me—then don’t come to the altar. I’ll understand.”

“I—”

“Don’t say anything yet.” He starts to retreat back toward the door. “Just think about it. If you come tomorrow, I’ll know it’s because you choose to, not because you feel trapped.”

He pauses at the threshold and turns back to look at me one more time.

“Whatever you decide, I meant what I said. I love you, Rowan. I think I have from the beginning, even when I was too stubborn and too broken to recognize it.”

56

VINCE

I don’t get nervous.

It’s not in my DNA. Nervousness implies uncertainty, and uncertainty invites weakness.

Yet here I stand, at the altar of our hastily arranged wedding, and my hands won’t stop fucking trembling.

The string quartet plays the same section of music for the third time. A not-so-subtle signal that something’s wrong. That the bride is late.

Or, perhaps, not coming at all.

Arkady shifts beside me, a questioning look on his face. My best man—my oldest friend—who’s never seen me like this before.

“She’ll be here,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t sound convinced.

I adjust my cufflinks. “Maybe,” I say, my voice unnaturally tight. “Maybe not.”

I gave her the choice. Told her she had an out. An Akopov man never gives outs, but I gave one to her. Because I love her enough to let her go.

Even if it destroys me.

The guests shift uncomfortably in their seats. A mix of Bratva captains and lieutenants on my side, looking deadly even in their formal wear. On Rowan’s side, the few friends from her life who passed our security screening.

Not Natalie, of course. That bridge burned to ash when Rowan discovered the truth.

“Should I check on her?” Arkady asks.

“No. We wait. She deserves that much.”

Five more minutes pass. The longest five minutes of my life.

Then the music changes.

The bridal march begins.

My heart stops and restarts and pounds so hard I swear everyone must hear it echoing against the high ceiling of this private chapel.

The doors at the back swing open.

And there. She. Is.

Rowan stands in the doorway, an angelic vision in ivory silk that hugs the growing curve of her stomach. Her hair is swept up, tiny diamonds glittering like stars against the caramel strands. Her face is partially hidden behind a wisp of veil, but I can see enough.

She came.

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