Page 121 of Vow to Claim You

“Aric.” His name comes out softer than I intend. Almost tender.

He doesn’t turn, but I see his shoulders shift. A minute adjustment, barely there.

“Go back to sleep.” His voice is flat and distant as if he’s already halfway behind his walls.

No.

No.

Two hours ago this man was inside me. Whispering my name like a prayer. Saying things I’d never thought I’d hear from him, and looking at me like he couldn’t decide whether to worship me or consume me whole.

Now he sounds like he’s addressing a stranger.

Typical. Absolutely typical.

I should turn around. Climb back into that ridiculously huge bed that still remembers what happened two hours ago, and pretend I don’t care. Preserve what’s left of my dignity—and God knows there’s little enough of it left after tonight, after I let him see me want him, let him hear me moan his name, let him watch me come apart in his arms like I was made for it.

But I don’t. I can’t, nor do I want to. Not anymore.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Business,” he says, dry and automatic, and I know it’s a lie.

I almost laugh. Almost. But nothing is funny about the way he’s holding himself. Nothing funny about the distance he’s already rebuilding. Nothing funny about watching a man construct walls in real time while I stand here hoping he’ll still let me past them.

“Don’t.” The word comes out harder than I mean it to.

He turns his head, and I catch the edge of his jaw, the sharp line of his profile, the pale slash of moonlight across his cheekbone. Those ice-blue eyes, always watching, always calculating, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this again.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Don’t push me away.”

I step closer. My hand lifts, hovers near his shoulder blade—near the ink and the scars and all the stories on his skin that he’s never told me—then drops.

“Please. Not again. Not after tonight. Not after everything you said. Not after⁠—”

Not after you made me believe this could be real.

Through the window, I see the snow keeps falling, burying the world in white like it’s trying to hide all the ugly things under something clean. I wonder if that’s what Aric does too—lets the ice build, layer over layer, until whatever’s underneath is too frozen to feel.

I’m about to retreat, about to decide I’ve pushed too hard, exposed too much, when his voice stops me.

“I’m not prepared for this.” His tone is low and rough, like it’s being dragged out of him against his will.

“For what?”

He turns fully toward me. His eyes find mine, and what’s in them makes my breath catch in my throat and refuse to move.

Not coldness. Not distance. Not the calculated control I’ve come to expect from Aric Vold.

Fear.

Aric Vold is afraid.

This man—this mafia heir who kills without flinching, who took a bullet for me without hesitating, who walked into that café tonight ready to burn the world down—stands in front of me looking terrified.

Of what?