Page 70 of Vow to Claim You

Pathetic thought. I bury it where it belongs.

I shift half a step closer, close enough that if she sways, I’m already there. Whether possessive instinct or protective instinct—same coin.

The priest drones on. Peace. Eternity. Forgiveness. None of those things exist in my world, so I don’t listen. I watch her instead—every shift in her breathing, every tightening of her fingers, the way she treats grief like something to be negotiated with instead of surrendered to.

Tassilo and Maylin keep their distance behind us, and their eyes open. I didn’t expect trouble, but expecting nothing is how men end up in boxes like the one we’re here to lower.

In the space of a heartbeat, a murmur ripples through the crowd. Subtle at first. Then sharper. Uneasy.

Something’s off.

A man in a dark suit steps to the priest and whispers into his ear. The priest’s face folds in on itself—confusion gives way to surprise, then unease. The murmurs spread.

He clears his throat. “Before we proceed… there is something Luca left behind. A recorded message.” His gaze searches the crowd before settling on my wife. “For Princess Ayanna.”

Silence drops like a guillotine.

Ayanna stiffens beside me, and every protective instinct I own snaps awake. I don’t like surprises. Never have. My hand finds the small of her back as if to reassure her.

Static crackles through a portable speaker. Then his voice.

“Ayanna. If you’re hearing this, something went wrong.”

A sea of faces turns toward us, and my jaw locks.

Dead men shouldn’t still be talking.

“I didn’t plan on dying. And if anyone tells you I chose this, don’t believe them.”

Well. That complicates everything.

Ayanna’s breathing goes shallow as the recording continues.

“I’m not angry with you. I don’t blame you. I know you had to marry him. And I’m sorry for what I did. I hope one day you can forgive me. Everything I ever did, I did because I still love you.”

Something ugly twists low in my chest. Jealousy. Toward a corpse.

“I hope he gives you the life I couldn’t.”

Static swallows the rest.

The priest tries to resume. No one’s listening anymore. The whispers have already started, suspicion spreading faster than grief ever could.

That message wasn’t closure. It was a match struck beside gasoline. And it was meant to be. A man doesn’t record those words, then arrange for them to play over his own grave in front of his own mourners by accident. Someone wanted this said here. Out loud. With me standing in the middle of it.

A raw, animal sound tears out of a woman before any words do. She shoves through the crowd, grief curdling into fury, eyes fixed on me.

“You.” The word breaks apart in her mouth. “You did this.”

Ayanna goes rigid. I don’t move. Never give chaos the satisfaction of a reaction.

“You and your people. He was alive when he left Norway. Now he’s in the ground.”

Gasps ripple outward.

“He loved her.” The woman jabs a finger at my wife, tears tracking down her face. “And you couldn’t stand it. So you made sure he disappeared for good.”

Some mourners drop their eyes. Others watch with the morbid hunger tragedy always draws.