Page 106 of Outcast’s Vow

But he obeys.

“You really are fortunate, Ethan,” he tells my ex as he lifts his foot off his chest. “Next time I won’t ask for her permission.”

It’s like the chalet. Just like that yoga instructor.

Ethan takes one last glance at me, panic flashing in his eyes, before he scrambles out of the study room.

I turn to my husband. He’s glaring back at me. His hands are fists. Even though my ex is gone, violence has not left my husband’s body.

So, he wasn’t joking when he said he would kill for me, huh?

“I guess I should thank you,” I say.

“You shouldn’t do anything,” he replies.

“You threatened to hurt him.”

“I was threatening a lot more than that, wife.”

I shake my head.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask. “What is this? A sixth sense? It’s freaking me out, Baptiste.”

“I’ve been tracking your phone,” he replies coolly.

“What?”

“Not to know where you are or to stalk you, but just to make sure you’re safe. And today I had a gut feeling something was wrong. I came to check in on you. I know you, woman. I knew something wasn’t right.”

“Hang on. I don’t like you controlling me like that.”

“You’re my wife, Sylvie.”

My hands tremble. I grip my textbooks close and give myself a moment.

I stand straight. I pull my shoulders back. I can’t let myself break. I can’t let myself be fragile.

My husband stands there silently. He’s waiting for my answer.

And I realize I hold so much power over him. All I need to do is merely mutter a word, and he would chase after Ethan. The man standing in front of me would do terrible things for me, without a second’s hesitation.

“Okay, I appreciate you looking out for me,” I say. “I do. So thank you. But I’m wary about how you’ve found me.”

I’m a hypocrite. Somehow, I’m holding two things at once... gratitude for being saved and fury at being tracked. I hate him for stalking me. I love him for coming to my rescue.

This is the effect Baptiste has on me.

And it’s so tempting to fall into it. To let it overcome me.

With him under my power like this, I feel I could do anything.

“We can have that conversation,” he says.

“We can have it now,” I reply. “You ask next time. You tell me if you’re tracking me.”

He nods, and then my husband offers me his hand. His fingers are no longer fists but a steady safety rope.

My own hand trembles.