Page 35 of Vow to Claim You

“Domenico works under Nikos Romano,” Aric clarifies. “He’s also Serena’s cousin. I’ve already notified Nikos. There will be a formal meeting tomorrow.”

My shoulders stiffen. “Tomorrow?”

“You’ll come with me. As Mrs. Vold.”

There it is again. That name.

Something pinches in my chest every time he says it. Like he’s using it to hold something else at bay. Or maybe to remind us both what this is.

“I figured.” I lift my chin.

He studies me for a moment, long enough that I have to resist the urge to fidget.

“I heard what you said to him,” he finally says. “The cameras,” he adds, like that explains everything.

“Of course.” A scoff escapes me before I can stop it.

“I know this marriage wasn’t something you chose, but I’m glad you understand what it requires.”

My chin dips in a small nod. “I keep my vows. Always.”

His eyes flick between mine until, involuntarily, my gaze drifts to the neat line of stitches threading through inked skin beneath his collarbone. I hadn’t noticed them—or hadn’t let myself notice them—before. The sight of it sends a strange, unwelcome ache through my chest.

“You were shot.” I stare at the stitched wound. “Because of me.”

“I was shot because someone made a mistake they’ll regret.” His voice doesn’t waver. “That’s all.”

I step closer before I can second-guess myself. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For...” I trail off, searching for the right words while his eyes hold mine. “Saving my life.”

He exhales through his nose. Either unimpressed or pretending to be. “You’re Mrs. Vold. Keeping you safe is my responsibility.”

Duty. Always duty.

Yet something in me refuses to believe that’s all it was. You don’t move that fast out of obligation. You don’t throw your body in front of a bullet because of a contract.

I reach out, fingers hovering near the wound. “Let me⁠—”

“It’s been taken care of.”

“I know.” I glance up at him. “I still want to.”

His eyes narrow, and his head angles slightly. “You’re stubborn.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally come to terms with that.”

The corner of his mouth twitches despite his attempt to fight it.

When my fingers brush his skin, his muscles tense. A ripple of something moves through him. Through me. Like we’ve both touched a live wire, and neither of us is pulling away.

“Who stitched it?” I ask, because I need to say something. Because the silence between us, that strange invisible wire connecting us, makes being so close to him intimidating.

“Our private surgeon.”

My thumb traces the skin near the stitches. “You could’ve died.”