Page 21 of Hostile Vows
“Your home is with me.”
I shake my head. “My home is with my mammy.”
“I’m your family now.” His boots move when he stretches out his neck as if he’s governing a source of energy or managing the short fuse to his lethal temper. “Put the ring on my finger, so we can get off this fucking boat and celebrate.” The confidence he was born with flows from his tone with effortless seduction. Its coarse bass texture reaches my bones, so they quake. I don’t stand a chance.
The second I take his big hand in mine and force the ring along his sturdy finger, my knees weaken. This is it. I’m a married woman. My life will never be the same.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I release his hand like lightning and stagger backward. “No fucking way.” Being mauled in front of these mobsters is a step too far. “We’re married. That’s all you need. I won’t kiss you as if this is my happy ever after.”
André runs his tongue over his top teeth and takes a slow breath. “Come here, Sinéad.”
“Fuck off!”
It takes one more step for Pup’s unmerciful grasp to yank my loose hair and the sole of his boot to meet the back of my knees. Bracing doesn’t stop me from collapsing, though. When I hit the deck, an aggressive whimper scrapes the inside of my throat, clawing its way out.
“Get the fuck off me!” I howl behind a sob. “I’ll kill you all. Don’t think I won’t.”
When my head is forcefully angled to a star-laden sky, I witness my new husband’s transformation from imperial god to fierce beast. My blood freezes. André’s sharp features fuse with flickering shadows, his frightening expression so very different and utterly sadistic, as if death itself whispers in his ear. A terrifying temper ripples through his tense form, the richness of his striking eyes turning to a malignant shade of ire.
The slight ocean breeze becomes a polar squall in the moment of chaos, when he draws a matte black revolver and squeezes the trigger.
No hesitation.
No debate.
No question.
As the killer bullet rips through the salty sea air, his poignant words roll deeper than thunder. “No one touches my wife, but me.”
The second a coppery casing drives into Pup’s skull, crimson spatters embellish snow-white upholstery and warm droplets rain down on me from above. As his rotten soul escapes him, Pup nosedives to the deck beside me, his fingers still tangled in the lengths of my hair. I ignore the commotion and work quickly until I’m finally free of him. The carnage decorating my clothes has no effect on me. I just stare at the glossy puddle dappled with brain debris in silence.
Justice is served.
From the corner of my eye, a male figure lowers to his haunches. My scalp prickles. I slide my unaffected gaze away from the dead man to find André Souza holding a gun in one hand and the other, jutted out, ready for me to latch onto it. His waiting palm is big and robust, the substantial hand of a killer. “If a Souza falls, they always rise. Get up.”
I should be sickened by his unremorseful actions, find an escape route, or even snatch the weapon so close to me. To save myself from this mess. Except, a surreptitious slice of my soul is grateful to André—for defending me—even when I need that same protection from him.
My blood runs excruciatingly cold, making my teeth chatter and my limbs uncontrollably tremble. Frankie was right. André is unpredictable, lawless, and I’m in full sight of him—his wife for as long as he deems the position occupied.
“Congratulations.” His head rotates, dragging his glare to Frankie for a beat. In the same breath, a charming grin follows his returning gaze. “You’re officially a Souza.” His scruffy cheek dimples as he chuckles from deep within his chest. His ruggedly handsome smirk obliterates the warring emotions within me. It’s no wonder he gets away with murder. “Say goodbye to your old life, Sinéad. You’re mine now.”
9
SINÉAD
The Morning After
“We've got a lot of catching up to do.” He teases the scruff on his jaw as he inspects every inch of me.
“How about less catching and more releasing?” I scowl up at the sheer size of him, chiseled, inked, and stark naked.
“How about a tour of your new home?” André doesn’t give me a chance to reply. Instead, he seizes my waist, hauls me skyward, and throws me over an oxlike shoulder. I yelp from the shock of it and instantly regret the feeble sound when he laughs again. “First up, the best part of the house.”
“Christ, Dré, put me the hell down,” I growl into the curve of his spine, my line of vision unfairly drawn to golden ass cheeks—round and firm. “This isn’t my home and I’m not a dumb rag doll you can throw about. If you’re going to show me a freaky dungeon with chains and shit, you can fuck right off.”
I barely notice him swivel or feel the confident strides he takes to carry me over oyster-colored square tiles toward an open plan state-of-the-art kitchen. Being this close to his warm skin is disorientating.
