Page 12 of Vow to Claim You

“I need a word.” That low, frost-laced voice sounds muffled through the door.

“Don’t come in!” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I’m taking a bath!”

Silence. Long enough for my pulse to pound against my ribs, for my mind to race through every possible scenario—him barging in, demanding I get out, enjoying my humiliation.

“I’ll wait outside.”

The words make me freeze.

Wait. Outside.

My lips part in shock. I expected him to storm in, command me out, and bark orders until I obeyed—all while drinking in my misery and the sight of me naked. That’s what men like him do, isn’t it? Take whatever they want, whenever they want it? But he’s... waiting. Like a decent human being.

I finish quickly, dragging on a robe and cinching the belt tight at my waist, suddenly too aware of my damp skin, my wet hair dripping down my back, the vulnerability of standing in nothing but silk while he waits on the other side of that door. My pulse drums an unsteady rhythm as I pad across the heated floor and into the bedroom. “You may come in,” I call out, aiming for dry indifference. Instead, I sound like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

The handle shifts, and my chest tightens.

He enters like the embodiment of winter—shoulders squared and expression cold enough to freeze the steam lingering in the air. His gaze sweeps over me, brief and unreadable, before settling on my face.

“I asked you to see me after Ingrid showed you the house.” His flat tone is a reprimand dressed as a statement.

I cross my arms, chin tilting defiantly. “Oh, I’m sorry. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

One brow arches—and I can’t quite believe I actually managed to draw a reaction from the man whose composure borders on inhuman. “Is that so?”

I bite back a smile. “What? Did it bother you, dear husband? You’re not used to people ignoring your commands, are you?”

His eyes narrow, head angling while he’s assessing me as though I’m a puzzle he hasn’t decided whether to solve or to smash. “What’s this really about?”

“Nothing.” My shrug is deliberate, casual, designed to irritate. “You didn’t ask me. You asked Ingrid, completely ignoring me as if I wasn’t even in the room. So I simply didn’t feel obligated to comply.”

He scoffs—actually scoffs—lips curving with something that looks dangerously close to amusement. “So this is where your problem lies.” He takes a step toward me, and I stand my ground, my chin arching instinctively to meet his approaching gaze. “I’ve wounded your pride, Princess.”

“It’s not about pride.” I swallow, hating that he’s close enough now for me to catch his scent—sandalwood and cedar. “It’s about respect. If you expect me to show you respect, treat me with the same.”

“I do respect you.”

“Is that so?”

He runs his tongue over his lower lip, his eyes flicking between mine, and something in my stomach tightens for reasons I’d rather not acknowledge.

“I apologize if I came across as impolite.”

I stare at him for a moment too long.

Holy shit. He actually apologized?

“You? Impolite?” I recover quickly, letting the mockery drip from every word. “I thought being an arsehole was simply your natural state.”

To my surprise, the smirk grows—as if he enjoys being challenged. As if my sharpness amuses rather than offends him.

“That was not my intention.” His voice drops lower, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. His gaze dips to my mouth, lingering there. The space between us tightens, charged with something dangerous.

For one reckless heartbeat, I think he’s going to reach for me—tilt my chin the way he did before. Instead, he steps back, leaving nothing but distance between us.

“I’m simply not accustomed to the…” He hesitates. “Situation.”

“Oh, so now I’m a situation?”