Page 137 of Ruined Vows
He continues to lick my face, and I figure we’re good, so I stand, and he follows us as we continue the tour.
The home doesn’t hum, buzz, or creak like other homes sprawling this wide—it waits, like it knows who it belongs to.
The walls are pale beige and warm under subtle lighting that doesn’t try too hard. The air smells like cedar and old leather. It’s clean, and everything is in order, almost like no one lives here.
But it’s the art that stops me.
Massive canvases hang with the gravity of a museum. Oil portraits, abstract horrors, and dark Romanticism rendered inachingly detailed lines. And I recognize some of it—not just styles, but pieces.
There’s a sculpture in the entryway that looks suspiciously like a Rodin. A fragmented bust, I know, is a Giacometti. A painting in the study, I could swear, belongs behind glass in the Uffizi.
I stare, and he watches me do it.
“You collect originals?” I murmur.
“I collect stories,” he replies.
My heels echo as I step through the hallway, taking in the cathedral ceilings, the wrought iron staircase that belongs in a movie, and velvet sofas and curtains. It wouldn’t be complete without the fire-glow lamps that throw everything into play, giving it all a modern vibe.
“You bring all your women here ?” I ask without looking at him.
“No,” he says. “You’re the first.”
And I believe him because this house isn’t built for seduction. It’s built for reverence. It’s his castle.
A library spans an entire wall in one room—ancient, leather-bound volumes stacked beneath carved weapons and aging maps. One map is hand-inked, the Balkans redrawn over blood.
I pause in front of it. “This is from 1912.”
He steps beside me. “Serbian front.”
“You kept this?”
“My great-grandfather carried it into the mountains.”
I trace a line down the border where the ink has smudged, like a hand once shook holding it.
“You have war on your walls,” I say.
“I come from a war-torn country,” he replies.
The honesty in it nearly brings me to my knees.
Later, we sit in a room that could pass for a gallery—two glasses of brandy and a fire burning low.
He’s quiet, and for the moment, he’s not trying to impress or dominate or command.
We discuss Rome, Belgrade, and my passion for history. I’m a geek who likes museums, relics, and pieces of art that are worth stealing.
And for the first time, I see the boy beneath the soldier.
The one who watched statues crumble and borders shift when he decided he’d never be powerless again. I get it.
I gethim. I tried to trip him up on our dates, but the man excelled and thrived in the face of my challenges. He’s a warrior. He’s a survivor.
“You know,” I say, studying the sculpture near the door, “most men show off by telling me how much they paid for something.”
“I’m not most men,” he replies.
