Page 57 of Vow to Claim You

Can’t blame her.

Truth is, I barely slept either.

Every shift of her body, every brush of fabric, every quiet breath she took kept pulling my attention back to the same dangerous thought… how close she was. Close enough that if I’d reached out, my hand would’ve found her waist. Her shoulder. The soft line of her jaw.

And the worst part?

I wanted to. Still do.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face as if I can physically wipe the thoughts away.

Focus.

I slip out of bed carefully, making sure the mattress barely shifts. She doesn’t stir. Good.

After I take a quick cold shower and pull on training clothes, my head is clear again. Controlled again.

This is why I train early.

Pain. Discipline. Exhaustion. They quiet things that shouldn’t be loud.

And lately, Ayanna Almaviri has been very loud in my head.

The gym burns the noise out of my system. The controlled pain feels predictable unlike everything else in my life lately.

By the time I finish, shower again, change into a formal black shirt and pants, and go through a stack of overnight reports in my office, the clock on my desk ticks toward eight, which means my father’s ritual of pretending we’re a normal family instead of a dynasty built on blood and leverage.

Ridiculous.

But until Vidar Vold stops breathing—and given his stubbornness, that might take longer than medical science expects—his rules stand.

I head downstairs. Eero is already there, sprawled in his chair like he owns the place, leather jacket still on despite Ingrid’s constant complaints about table manners. He gives me a quick nod, something between brotherly and conspiratorial. Vidar sits at the head of the table in his gray cardigan. The big clock on the wall ticks loud enough to feel intentional.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before Vidar clears his throat.

His gaze lifts to the clock. Eight ten.

“And where,” he looks at me, “is your wife?” There’s emphasis on the last word. A test more than a question.

“I’m sure she’s coming,” I answer calmly. Because she usually is punctual. More than punctual.

Vidar snorts softly. “You must teach your wife obedience, Aric. She cannot act as she pleases. She’s your wife now.” He taps his cane loudly. “When your mother wouldn’t comply with me in the past, I⁠—”

“And where is she now?” The question cuts across his sentence. “She left,” I hiss, meeting his gaze without blinking. “So don’t instruct me on how to treat my wife. I’m not you.” I stand. “Excuse me.”

Eero’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin. Vidar says nothing, but I feel his eyes on my back as I head for the stairs.

I stop outside the bedroom door, hoping she just overslept. I push the door open, and see Ayanna sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees drawn slightly inward, hands limp in her lap. Her hair is styled in thick waves, not the natural curls she wakes up with, but carefully done. Makeup applied… and ruined. Mascara streaked down her cheeks like something inside her broke mid-preparation.

She was getting ready for breakfast. Something happened.

Alarm isn’t an emotion I indulge in often, but seeing her like this makes every instinct in me be on high alert.

“What happened?” I walk toward her. “Are you okay?”

Her head lifts slowly, and the look she gives me stops me mid-step.

Hatred. Pure. Undiluted. Directed straight at me.