Page 13 of Vows of Ruin

“For my mother… fucking with us from the grave.”

His eyes harden, but the kiss he presses to my lips is anything but. It’s deep. Unapologetic. A brand of love that’s survived war.

“We survived her once,” he murmurs against my lips. “We’ll do it again.”

I melt into him, just for a second. Letting him be the warmth I need. The anchor. Then he’s gone, and the apartment feels colder than before. Silence presses in. The panic comes fast. Like a rip current, it grabs me and pulls me under before I can brace. My hands tremble violently. My chest tightens until it feels like a vise is wrapped around my ribs. My knees threaten to give, but I refuse to fall, not yet.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale—

But nothing comes. My vision tunnels. Then arms, strong, unrelenting. Liam.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He grabs me tight, pulling me back from the edge. His voice is calm, grounded. “I’ve got you.” His back slides down the wall, taking me with him until we’re on the floor. I’m cradled against him, his heartbeat steady against my spine.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers. “Just match me, Little Warrior.” I try. I fail. I try again. Slowly, the air returns. The world doesn’t stop spinning, but it slows just enough for me to hold on. I don’t cry. I don’t break. I breathe, because he’s breathing with me. For now… that’s enough.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, his arms wrapped around me, anchoring me through the storm while my ribs quake and my vision spins. But eventually, the static begins to fade. My heartbeat, still frantic, slows just enough to make room for thought again. For breath.

I turn, pressing my face into his chest and whisper, “I hate this.”

“I know,” he murmurs into my hair. “But I’ve got you.”

When I finally feel my legs under me again, I untangle from him and push myself to my feet. My reflection in the mirror catches my eyes, smudged mascara, swollen lips, the raw truth of everything I’m still carrying.

I turn and stare for a long moment. Then square my shoulders.

“That’s it,” I say quietly, meeting my own eyes. “No more of those.”

I turn to Liam, Reaper, and there’s a glint of steel behind the exhaustion in my voice. “I just needed to get that one out.”

He watches me, cautious, concerned. But I don’t give him time to protest.

“Now help me change.” A corner of his mouth lifts.

“Bossy,” he mutters, already moving.

“You like it,” I shoot back.

His smile lights up his entire face. “I really do.”

Chapter Seven

Reaper

Nights like this are the ones I hate most. The club is crawling with money. High-powered men and women who think the world bends to their whims. They smile like their teeth aren’t daggers. They sip expensive liquor and pretend they don’t see who we are. What we’ve built.

But I see everything. I always do. I’m posted near the booth when she walks in. She changed out of her dress. No silk. No heals. She dressed for war.

Tight black pants hug her hips like a second skin. A black tank top clings to her frame, her collarbones framed by the dagger on her chain. Her boots are laced high and her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, face carved in precision, makeup redone like war paint. Eyes sharp. Lips blood red.

She looks like vengeance incarnate. And fuck if I don’t want to fall to my knees for her.

She slides into the booth between Max and me without a word. We don’t bring up the compass. The photos. The cameras. It’s too public out here. Too many eyes. So we sit. Watch. Wait.

Margot’s already dragging Elias and Riot onto the dance floor, both of them laughing as she spins between them like she owns the world.

Wrenley sips her tequila, giggles at something Max murmurs into her ear. Then she turns to me, catching fire with that wild spark she gets when she’s about to choose chaos, and kisses me. Then Max. A soft, slow press to our lips. Nothing obscene. Just enough to silence the room.

Our first public claim. People notice. I see the looks. The curiosity. The envy. But I don’t give a damn. Let them watch. The only thing that matters is her.