Page 15 of Tormented Oath

The look he gives me is pure heat. "Tell me more about this ranch fantasy of yours." His thumb traces circles on my wrist, making it hard to think. "Paint me a picture."

"A big house," I say, trying to ignore how his touch affects me. "The kind with a wraparound porch and rocking chairs. Somewhere my brother could heal, could become someone new."

"Your brother." His expression shifts again . "Tony, right? He'd be what, sixteen now?"

The fact that he knows this—has kept track of us somehow—makes my stomach flip. "Seventeen. And struggling."

"Like you struggled?" His voice is soft but intent, like he's piecing together a puzzle. "Is that why you're here, Ava? For him?"

If only you knew.

"Everything I do is for him," I admit, and at least that's not a lie. "He's all I have left."

Stefano's hand tightens on my wrist. "That's not true anymore."

His words send heat pooling low in my belly. I need to pull away, to remember why I'm here, to focus on actual my job.

But then he starts talking about making my Montana dreams come true, about how he has connections out west, about how he could help make it happen. And for one dangerous moment, I let myself imagine it: a life where I don't have to run, where Tony is safe, where Stefano is...

No. I can't think like that. I can't let myself believe in fairy tales.

I look around at the glittering restaurant, at the city lights beyond the windows, at the man watching me like I'm something precious he thought he'd lost forever, and I can't help but wonder.

What if there was another way?

The thought is dangerous. Deadly. The Fiori family doesn't take kindly to betrayal.

But neither, I suspect, does Stefano Rega.

The wine has turned everything soft around the edges, but Stefano remains in sharp focus. Maybe that's why I can't stop watching his hands—the way he holds his glass, how his fingers drum lightly against the table when he's thinking. Those hands used to make me feel safe. Now they make me feel...something else entirely.

"You're staring," he says, voice rough with something that makes heat curl in my stomach.

"You're staring back."

His lips curve into that dangerous smile of his. "I've earned the right. Ten years of looking for you..." He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. "I have a lot of catching up to do."

His intense gaze makes me reach for my own glass. "And what do you see?"

"Everything." He leans forward again, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "The mask you wear. The walls you've built. The way you're fighting this thing between us." His finger traces the rim of my glass. "But underneath it all, you're still my Ava."

HisAva. The words sink into my skin.

"You don't know me anymore," I whisper, but even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.

"No?" He catches my hand as I reach for my wine. "Then why does your pulse jump when I touch you? Why do you keep looking at my mouth? Why haven't you pulled away?"

He's right. I haven't moved my hand from his grip. Can't seem to remember why I should.

"This is a bad idea." But I'm already leaning closer.

"You were always my favorite bad idea." His thumb strokes my wrist, proving his point. "Do you remember that summer, Ava? The garden? The promises?"

God, yes.I remember everything. The way he kissed me. The wild dreams we shared. The look in his eyes when I told him to run from my family.

It’s the same look he's giving me now.

"We were kids," I manage, though my voice shakes.

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