Page 19 of Vow to Claim You

His lips twitch in that signature way. “It means you respond to me and me only. You’re above everyone else but my father and me. You’ll receive the respect you deserve. You’ll be protected and provided for. Much like the hierarchy in the royal family, except here, you’re in line to the throne. Next to me, that is.”

“How lovely,” I deadpan. “And what do you want in return? My eternal gratitude? Because you see, I never wished for an upgrade, if you can call it one.”

The arsehole once again completely ignores my remarks like he’s mastered it.

“I want you to obey me.”

For a fraction, I think I’ve misheard him. Then I realize I haven’t.

“Obey you?” I repeat. “That’s convenient. An obedient wife who doesn’t trouble you while you do you, huh?”

“You misunderstand me,” he remains irritatingly unmoved.

“Oh, do I?”

He sighs, his expression settling into that faint, infuriating patience that seems to be his natural state.

At least, I managed to draw a reaction out of him, even if it was as little as a sigh.

“The alliance between our families didn’t simplify things, Princess. On the contrary, it made us targets. By uniting, we gained power, and power attracts enemies.”

He angles his head slightly. “Be a good wife to me, respect me, obey my will…” His voice drops lower, almost intimate. “And we might make it out alive.”

For a heartbeat, everything stills. The car, the road, even the air feels suspended in time. I stare at him, searching for a flicker of emotion, but of course, there’s nothing. Just that unreadable calm that makes him impossible to predict.

I force a small, humorless smile before I turn back to the window.

Fantastic. I’m married to a man who, apparently, treats obedience like oxygen. But I’ll let him have it his way. I’ll play this game better than anyone. Let him think I’ll bow or curtsy even until I find my way out of this. And I will. Because Aric Vold might be adorably mistaken that he married some fragile royal doll—a sheltered daughter of a monarchy—but he knows nothing of what that title really means. The truth is, monarchy and the mafia aren’t that different. Both are built on loyalty and fear. Both thrive on hierarchy and obedience. One hides its corruption behind crowns and etiquette, the other behind guns and gold. But both demand sacrifices, and both rule by making people kneel. The only real difference is the mask they wear.

And I’ve been wearing mine since birth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Aric

The car slows as we approach the iron gates. Two guards step forward, and without a word, I roll up my sleeve to scan the UV-reactive tattoo—All-Seeing Eye inside a triangle, the club’s emblem—to confirm my identity. The gates open, and we drive toward the building that looks like a cathedral from the outside.

The car glides to a stop, a valet already waiting at the curb. I walk around to Ayanna’s side and open the door, offering her my hand. She places hers in mine, and together we make our way inside. The guards open the entrance before we reach it. The steady rhythm of my footsteps blends with the sharp click of Ayanna’s heels as we cross the polished wooden floors of the main corridor. We stop before a pair of towering oak doors.

“Now what?” She glances at me, torn somewhere between suspicion and curiosity.

“When we walk through those doors, you’ll have to swear loyalty before the Council,” I say, my voice low, more like a warning than advice. “You’ll have to take the oath the same way every member has. With blood.”

Shock flashes across her face. Disgust follows a heartbeat later. “Pardon me?” Her enormous eyes grow even bigger, but I continue like I’m reciting a business contract.

“You’ll be cut, just enough to draw blood. Then mingle with the society’s leader’s own, and you’ll drink it. It seals the code of silence and allegiance.”

For a fraction, her jaw tightens, a muscle twitching as if she’s swallowing her revulsion. But before she has the chance to make another one of her retorts, the double doors swing open, and every head turns toward her.

Men straighten in their seats, some trying—and failing—not to stare. Women tilt their heads, eyes sliding over her with poorly masked envy. I expected as much. The princess is beautiful. But tonight…tonight she’s something else. Divine in a way that feels almost forbidden. Like a sin sculpted in flesh.

Every man in the room wants her.

Every woman wants to be her.

But she’s mine, at least by name.

I gesture for her to enter. She steps inside, and I follow a pace behind.