Page 53 of Ruined Vows
He walks away like the ground owes him something. He’s confident, calm, and unapologetically lethal. I’m not calm, not as confident, not really. However, I’ve been trained to be deadly.
I have no right to ask him to stay, but I don’t want him to leave. So I’m watching him go, and my heart aches. I can’t help but stare at him, like maybe if I stare hard enough, I’ll make him turn around.
He doesn’t. But damn, he doesn’t need to. He commands attention without trying. Jeans—dark, fitted, low enough to remind me of things I shouldn’t be thinking about, especially when it’s the man I’m sworn to hate.
His designer shirt looks like it was painted on him, but it doesn’t overstate. The sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows, snug enough to make it criminal. And those arms…
He’s different than the boys I’ve dated. Yes, boys. He’s decisive. I’ve never had a man who’s stood up to me before, not like him. He’s not afraid to tell me “no.” He’s a man who can stand up to me and entertain my snarky comebacks. He is worthy of my attention, and I want to get to know him. I want to know where he’s from and what makes him tick.
And, yes, he’s sexy as sin. Of course, I’ve had fantasies of being with him. Of what it would be like to rake my nails down his back, and have his arms hold me tight.
Ink wraps up one like a dark story told in pictures and obscure words. I’m sure they all hold a memory. I’ve never seen all of it. One: he never offered. Two: I never asked.
But I want to. God, Iwantto.
His shoulders move beneath the fabric with every step, broad, decisive, and steady, like the world doesn’t touch him—he moves through it. His walk is effortless.
No one would guess he’s a billionaire. Not by the way he walks. Not necessarily by the way he dresses. Because he doesn’t need to show off his wealth or power, because he is powerful.
But today, the attraction isn’t dark like he could kill me. It’s soft and purposeful. The fact that he came shows he cares and thinks of others. It’s the fact that he took time out of whatever dark, bloody empire he runs to attend a dog fundraiser.
He just did it for me. He didn’t ask for a spotlight. He didn’t do it to make points. He was about to leave without seeking me out, which means his intentions weren’t to manipulate the situation to make himself look like a savior. And that speaks louder than any words he could have said.
The lump in my throat is too big to swallow. He touched a part of me, a part of me I don’t show to anyone, let alone a man. Because the men in my childhood hurt my feelings, and they killed the love I gave them all in a cowardly attempt to control me, and it was a way to make themselves meaningful.
And it’s not that I haven’t been around men, because I’ve known men who’ve promised me the world and delivered nothing but disappointment. They never put in the work to get to know me, to reallyseeme.
Vukan didn’t promise a thing. He justshowed up.And now he’s walking away, and a piece of me is going with him. Not because I gave it, but because hetook it.
And the worst part? I don’t want it back.
I should walk away from him because he’s worldly, experienced, and devastatingly handsome, and I’m sure he’ll break my heart. It might not be today, or tomorrow, but eventually every man breaks my trust and hurts me.
But no matter how much I fight my desire for him, it continues to build. We’re molten lava and fire—like a smoldering volcano. And I’d be lying if I said I’m not afraid of what will happen if I continue on this path because he’s dangerous, and because he knows me. The real me.
I’ve never trusted any men. Sure, I trust my brothers to a point, but even they bend the rules. Like when they negotiated with Vukan and didn’t inform me that I would pay the price for the family’s salvation.
I’m tired of dating men who tell me what they think I want to hear. I’m tired of dishonest men. Then, there are the assholes who “forget” their wallets at home. And finally, the affluent men who only want me on their arm, or in their bed, and they never ask for my input on anything. They have their entire life built around comfort, the jet-set life, and hanging out with their friends, and never get to know mine.
The problem with rich men is that they expect me to follow them blindly. They expect me to play a part. But they never asked if it was okay with me.
Vukan’s not like the men I’ve dated.
He came to see me today, and somehow, he got me to talk about things that I never talk about. I left all the hurt and pain in the past. But like all trauma, it sits and it festers and it becomes a shadow that follows me wherever I go.
He’s had trauma, too, and he understands this. He knows where I came from, and he knows some of my scars.
This makes him dangerous, because if I’m not careful, he’s going to unravel me like a moth-eaten knitted sweater.
How does he always know what to say and what to do?
I return to the fundraiser, but it’s not the same as it wasbefore he arrived. The event winds down, my feet hurt from walking over pavement all day, and there’s glitter on my hands.
I’m tired. I’m ready to go home. I say my goodbyes and make my way to my car, wondering how much money I promised to fund more dog adoptions.
That’s when it hits me. I need to start a nonprofit for the family. I’ll call it the Borrelli Foundation. I’ll run it. It’s the perfect place for me. I’ll be responsible for managing charitable donations and organizing gala events. I can raise funds for worthy causes.
And I’ll do it happily.
