Page 36 of Vow to Claim You

“I didn’t.” His hand closes around my wrist, firm but not rough. “I said I’m fine.”

His proximity sends a shiver straight down my spine. The sharp angles of his face, the controlled violence of his stillness, the way the light turns him into something carved rather than born. Because up close, he is devastating. Divinely so. His face remains composed, unreadable, a barren landscape that gives nothing away. Yet his eyes tell a different story. They burn. Not openly, though. Contained. Like something that would destroy everything if it slipped its leash.

“I should go,” I whisper, suddenly aware of how thin the space between us has become.

I turn, but his hand squeezes harder. In one smooth motion, he spins me back, his other hand settling at the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. My breath stutters as my head tilts back, forced to meet his gaze.

“You can’t see him again,” he growls. “Not anymore.” His thumb presses lightly into my spine. “Not when you’re… mine.”

Mine.

He never calls me his wife or says my name like it belongs to him. Yet here he is, claiming me in the same breath he keeps me at a distance.

A possessive, infuriating contradiction.

“Am I yours, though?” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. “Or is this all just a game? A facade we’re expected to maintain?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on mine, as though trying to make sense of something that refuses to.

I step back gently, slipping from his hold before it can tighten once again.

“Good night, Aric,” I whisper, and leave with my heart racing, skin still humming.

I don’t sleep that night. Every time I close my eyes, I see blood. Hear the echo of a gunshot and feel the way Aric shields me. The weight of what almost happened presses against my ribs until breathing feels optional. I lie still in the dark, staring at a ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the wind outside, once again, realizing Norway is nothing like Monsera. There are no cicadas, no fountains echoing through the palace courtyards or rustling olive trees, no air that still feels warm against your skin, even at night. Here, the silence feels chilling.

I press my palm flat against my chest, counting my breaths like a child again. In. Hold. Out. It doesn’t calm me. Nothing does… not anymore.

Eventually, the alarm goes off, announcing a morning I could never have recognized without the clock because the darkness beyond my windows looks no different than it did hours ago. I slip out of bed, hoping I can outrun the thoughts that kept me awake.

I slip into a tailored black pantsuit and pull my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck.

Aric is already waiting when I enter the hall, dressed in a black blazer that sits impeccably on his broad shoulders. He looks exactly as he always does, composed and lethal. This man exudes authority without saying a word. His gaze flicks to me, and he inclines his head, signaling for me to go ahead. He falls into step behind me. We head outside to the waiting car, which takes us to the Volds’ private airfield. Before long, we’re aboard Aric’s private jet, and I settle into the cream leather seat opposite him.

The entire flight passes in silence. I watch the clouds drift beyond the window and pretend I’m not aware of every breath my husband takes, every subtle shift in his seat. The cabin feels too small despite its size, too quiet, and I’m grateful when we finally begin our descent.

A helicopter is waiting for us when we land. Moments later, it sets down on the rooftop helipad of Olympus. Guards line the perimeter. Men who look as though they were born with weapons in their hands and haven’t smiled since. One steps forward as we approach. Without a word, Aric rolls back his sleeve. The scanner passes over the inside of his forearm, emitting a brief violet glow, and a soft chime follows. I catch a glimpse of the screen.

IDENTITY VERIFIED

CLEARANCE α

ACCESS GRANTED

The guard nods and steps aside.

Inside, the corridors seem to go on forever. White stone walls, high ceilings, footsteps echoing off marble like we’re walking through some ancient tomb.

I keep my gaze forward, pace measured, and expression carefully blank.

If I’m terrified—and I am, a little, not that I’d ever admit it—I don’t let it show.

One door stands at the end of the hall. Aric opens it. The room beyond is already occupied. Nikos is inside, exactly as I remember him—commanding without effort, danger worn like a second skin. Serena stands beside him, in an elegant black romper, her expression unreadable, carved from the same stone as the walls around us. And in the center of the room, a man sits bound to a chair, wrists tied behind his back, posture defiant despite the bruising darkening his jaw. His eyes lift when we enter.

I don’t need to be told who he is. I know it must be Domenico.

Nikos rises slowly. “We’ve already concluded the interrogation,” he says to Aric, his tone calm, as if this were a business meeting and not a man’s final hours ticking down. “He confessed,” Nikos continues. “He betrayed us. He conspired to destabilize an alliance sanctioned by The Gods. He intended to kill—” His gaze shifts and settles on me. “Princess Ayanna.”

The sound of my name in his mouth feels like ice sliding down my spine, but I stand still. I will not give them the satisfaction of watching me flinch.