Page 1 of Vow to Claim You

CHAPTER ONE

Aric

“Love is a luxury men like us can’t afford,” Vidar—my father, though I refuse to call him that—declares after he announces he has arranged a marriage for me. Arranged a fucking marriage.

“You’ve always been wicked.” I look him in the eye, wrath burning inside me, but on the outside? I’m a fucking iceberg. “But now, you’re pushing the lines.”

Vidar is just like me. Or perhaps, I am like him. As much as I hate it, he made me his reflection. Neither of us shows any trace of emotion.

He leans back in his black leather chair, smoking his cigar like he’s not one foot in the grave already due to the lung cancer caused by that shit. “You will do as I command.” A muscle tenses in me at his choice of words. Like I’m his soldier and not a goddamn son. “You’re going to marry Ayanna Lilith Almaviri. This is not up for debate. The Gods want to accept the Almaviris into the society, and the alliance between our families is the only way I could ever agree to that.”

My jaw clenches imperceptibly at the way he speaks to me as though he’s discussing business and not rearranging my whole life for his own ambition. The truth is, I know he wanted it. The alliance between the Almaviris and us. Leandro, the king’s brother, has a grip on the underworld of North Africa, and our syndicates have been at war for the past decade due to business gone wrong. My father would never allow them to join The Gods, even despite the other members’ approval. Unanimous agreement is required for any decision to pass. One vote against, and it dies. So it seems The Gods found another way—an alliance through marriage.

After the Castros—Colombian drug cartel and The Gods’s channel to smuggle drugs to North America—went against the society leader, Nikos Romano, they’ve considered the Monsera an alternative. Or rather, the only logical choice. The country’s location in North Africa, near the Mediterranean and Atlantic, makes it a perfect transit point between Africa, Europe, and the Americas. Plus, the country has its own port city, which will serve as a staging area for container shipments. Since the king himself is corrupted, he won’t stand in the way of smugglers hiding drugs in legal shipments.

“Do you wish to meet your bride before the wedding?” Vidar’s sharp voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

Do I wish to meet her?

What kind of question is that? As if it’s about what I want.

“We can arrange a meeting so you can, perhaps, propose to her properly. As it should be done.” Vidar exhales another puff of smoke, like he didn’t just shatter the last illusion of freedom I had. He tilts his head, voice so goddamn neutral it grates. “Considering she’s from a royal family, that would be expected.”

Propose. A scoff escapes my tightening jaw. “Right. Shall I get down on one knee before the paperwork or after?” I mock. “Maybe throw in a violin quartet while we’re at it.”

He watches me as if pleased I haven’t put a bullet in his skull yet, and very displeased by the way I speak to him.

“You just said the wedding’s a done deal. Spare me the theater, will you?” I stare him down. “Just send the ring with the contract. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Very well. I’ll send the contract for her to sign. You’ll just meet her at the altar.” His tone hardens. “You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

I turn on my heel and walk out of his office.

Ayanna Lilith Almaviri. The name tastes like gunpowder on my tongue. The name that just signed the death warrant of the only thing in my life that felt remotely real. Because of this fucking marriage agreement, I have to look Chiara in the eye and dismantle a year of something that almost resembled peace. Because of this goddamn deal, I’m fucking gift-wrapped like a fucking cargo for a woman I’ve never met. So no, I don’t care if she’s beautiful, intelligent, or the second coming of the Virgin Mary. She’s the beginning of the end. And I already resent the sound of her name.

I leave for Oslo that same night. The drive from Lyngenfjord would take over nine hours, so I fly by helicopter from the Volds’ estate to the private airfield. From there, my jet is waiting. Just over two hours later, I step into the penthouse I own in the capital. My destination is one of the city’s most exclusive clubs, where I’m meeting Chiara. We’re settled onto a black leather couch in a private VIP lounge. Tinted glass separates the area, and a low hum of bass-heavy music is muffled behind dark walls. A bottle of Highland Park 40 sits on the table beside two glasses—mine still full.

Chiara drapes herself over me as she always does, tracing the vertical runic tattoo on the side of my neck, whispering something into my ear. The familiar scent of her perfume hits my nose. She smells like vanilla and roses, something a little too sweet for my liking, but comforting in its own way. I used to find something grounding in her. Something consistent in the chaos. She wasn’t just a girl to fuck and forget. I’ve never been the playboy type. She never pried too much or demanded more than I was willing to give. And maybe that’s what kept me longer than I should’ve stayed. Some might call it love, but not me. I don’t do love. But I was serious about her. Serious enough to keep her close. And never lie to her.

But tonight is different. Everything that once felt easy and familiar now feels so foreign. I look at her face and in her eyes. There’s that glint, the same flirtatious spark she always wears, carefree and beautiful. I let her laugh spill into the space between us. I don’t know why I let her think, even just for a moment longer, that this night is like any other. But it isn’t.

“Tonight will be the last time we see each other, Chiara.” My voice sounds detached as I speak with a mask of indifference I’ve learned to wear.

Her smile falters as if she’s not sure she heard me right. “What do you mean?”

I swirl the scotch in my glass, watching the amber—the same shade as her eyes—burn around the edges. I still haven’t taken a sip.

“I’m getting married in two weeks.”

Her face pales instantly, and her hand instinctively retracts. “What did you just say?” Her voice is shaky, though soft. “And what about us?”

I knew she would get it. She would know it’s no joke. I’m not the type to joke around, and she knows me so damn well it’s actually scary. Perhaps that’s also why I felt so good with her.

“There’s no us. Not anymore.” My tone is colder than intended.

Chiara’s eyes flick between mine like two little flames. Then pain writes all over her face like I just cut her open with words alone.