Page 2 of Twisted Vows

I fold my hands, my palms clammy with sweat as the walking finally stops.

I can tell he’s in front of me.

What’s he going to do?

The scent of sandalwood and smoke reach me first, heavy and…enticing. Gangsters and criminals shouldn’t smell like the heroes from romance novels.

Good lord, Sophia. This isn’t the time to indulge your smut-rotted mind in Prince Charming fantasies.

His presence spreads over me like an inescapable shadow. Every thought in my head screams flee, but my wrecked neurons ignore the order, and I stay rooted while his surprisingly gentle hand slides under my elbow.

Despite my jelly-like legs, I stand.

He spins me around and steers me toward his car, his grip firm but not rough. Then he lets go and tugs the blindfold off.

Light floods in, harsh and blinding. When my eyes adjust, he’s sprawled against the hood, way too calm and younger than the voice suggested. Sharper, too, and the kind of handsome that feels like a warning.

“I don’t have all night,” he says, his nonchalant tone twisting my stomach.

The ease in his voice messes with me more than the possibility of violence, and a shiver races over my skin as my fingers twitch toward my shirt.

Would he stop me? Do I want him to?

My heart slams against my ribs. Cold sweat coats my skin. I’m furious, and underneath that, confused in a way I don’t have language for yet.

Will he torture me if I say no?

I should refuse, maybe beg him to not force me to do this. But then a dangerous thought curls awake inside my head.

What will he do when I strip? Will he find my body sexy? Maybe I can knock him off his aloof perch by showing some skin.

Curiosity threads through the fear as I start removing my shirt. My fingers catch on the hem before I thrust the fabric over my head, revealing my simple black sports bra.

The reaction I’m waiting for never comes. His eyes stay as frigid and dead as they were seconds ago.

“Go on. Take off the shorts.”

The night air licks across my skin, covering my forearms in goosebumps as my fingers close around the jean shorts. Time freezes while I go through the motions of unbuttoning, unzipping, and then dropping them. Behind me, my father’s labored breaths and my mother’s quiet sobs scrape against my nerves.

He steps closer, close enough that I feel his warmth. My pulse stutters when his hand slides along my hip like he’s memorizing me by touch alone.

His fingers hook the waistband of my panties, tugging them down just enough to slip his hand inside.

My breath quickens, and heat floods my face. I hate that my body responds, that fear and want have gotten so tangled, I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

His hand stills for a fraction of a second. Like he also feels that electric crackle between us.

He finds the folded piece of paper tucked between my skin and the fabric. My father’s insurance policy. Names. Locations. Secrets worth killing for.

But men like these have killed for less.

His fingers linger a beat too long before he extracts the paper, his knuckles brushing places that cause my thighs to involuntarily clench.

My nipples harden. Heat licks across my stomach like I swallowed a storm. No, Soph. You shouldn’t feel this way.

Then…his fingers again. This time on my face.

They trace my eyelids and the bridge of my nose, prompting me to debate opening my lips and inviting those fingers in so I can bite them as he drags them over my mouth. My pulse kicks up. I hate the flutter of his breath and how I vibrate at every caress. How my body reacts to the sheer presence of him.