Page 121 of Crushed Vow
I froze.
My gaze swept toward the shadows edging the lot, to the red-glow sign of Cielo Rosso, and then back toward the street.
Was he watching me?
The thought knifed through my chest. I turned in a slow circle, scanning the area. No one. Nothing. But I could feel it—the weight of eyes. My skin prickled.
Had he hacked the cameras?
I glanced up, looking for black domes in the corners of the lot or the dull red blink of a recording light.
Nothing.
“Cassian—”
“Get away from him,” he cut me off. “Right now, Charlotte. Step back. Five paces. Turn around. Do it now.”
“Why? What—”
“Because if you sit in that passenger seat, I will rip the steering wheel out of his chest.” His voice fractured, rage spillingin shards. “Do you understand me? I will tear him apart with my hands.”
“Cassian, he didn’t do anything—”
“I don’t care if he didn’t touch you,” he hissed. “I don’t care if he prayed over you. I don’t care if he saved your life. He took you on a date. He put his name next to yours in public. He watched you eat. He looked at your mouth. He wants something. And he’s breathing your air.”
“Are you insane?”
“For you?” A bitter laugh. “Always.”
My throat closed.
“I warned you I wasn’t stable. I told you I’d drag the world to hell if it ever put you in another man’s car. You think this is jealousy?” His voice cracked—once, like something was unraveling deep inside. “This is ownership. You’re mine. I don’t care if you hate it. I don’t care if you ran. You think you’re free, Charlotte?”
His breath trembled over the speaker. Like he was running. Like something inside him had already snapped.
“You’re not free. You’re mine.”
I backed away from the car.
Manuel was still waiting, holding the door open, glancing at me like I was overreacting.
Like he didn’t feel the storm barreling toward him.
But I did.
Because I knew Cassian Moretti.
I knew the kind of man who would rip out his own eyes to save me—then use what was left of them to find me in the dark.
And I knew that if I got in that car, Manuel wouldn’t make it home alive.
“I told you I would always be watching. Did you think that stopped just because you’re trying to pretend you hate me?” His voice was unhinged now, barely tethered to sanity.
“You’re tracking me?” My voice cracked, half shock, half shame, and somewhere in there, a small part of me relieved.
“You belong to me,” he seethed. “And I don’t share. Not with doctors. Not with devils. Not with anyone.”
“Cassian—”
