Page 61 of Vow to Claim You

I climb the steps into the jet, Tassilo’s posted by the cockpit door like a scary statue he is. There’s also a woman near the galley, cut from the same cold stone. Dark braided hair, dark skin, and the same black eyes as Tassilo’s, and that stillness about her that says she’s every bit as lethal as her brother and simply hides it better. She must be Maylin.

I’m already bracing to nod at them, fold myself into a seat, and vanish into my grief for the next several hours when I see him.

Aric sits there as though he were carved into the chair, one ankle resting across his opposite knee, dressed in black so complete it could pass for mourning of his own. Those pale eyes lift to me, unhurried. A glass of Scotch rests untouched in his hand.

My stomach drops, then flares hot.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, sharper than I mean it.

“I’ve had a change of heart.” His neck cranes. “Thought I’d come along. Fulfill my husbandly duties. Escort my wife to a funeral. That sort of thing.”

A scoff scrapes up my throat. “Husbandly duties.” I fold my arms. “You wouldn’t recognize one if it bit you.”

“Yet, here I am.”

I take a step closer, fury tightening inside me. “Let me guess. You’re afraid I’ll bolt the second I touch Monserian soil. That I’ll run home and never come back to you.”

The corner of his mouth tips. “Run, Princess.” He rolls the words around like they entertain him, and it infuriates and surprises me in equal measure. “You heard me. Run, if it pleases you.” The amusement bleeds out of his face, leaving something colder behind it. “I’ll only enjoy the chase.” He leans back nonchalantly like a wolf with all the time in the world. “Or are you too afraid to find out how uncivilized I become when I hunt my prey?”

Prey. Like I’m something to be run down. It slides down my spine and pools cold at the base of it, and for a second I forget to be angry at all.

He’s never spoken to me like this before. Something’s changed.

“God morgen, svigerinne.”

The tension snaps like a wire pulled past its breaking point.

I turn toward the voice. Eero fills the cabin doorway, grinning like he’s caught us mid-something far more scandalous than a standoff. He’s wearing his usual leather jacket, his hair sleep-mussed, and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Please tell me you’re only here to see us off.”

His eyebrows lift. “What, didn’t Aric tell you?” He props a shoulder against the bulkhead. “I’m coming with.”

My gaze cuts back to my husband. He’s smirking. Actually smirking. Those intoxicating dimples appear, along with a flash of perfect teeth.

“Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Eero’s eyes ping between the two of us, and his grin sharpens into something wicked. “Ah. I see.” He pushes off the wall. “Well, I’ll leave you lovebirds to your heartwarming exchange of marital bliss.”

He’s whistling before I can correct him—or throw something at him—already sauntering toward the back of the jet like he’s just won a bet with himself.

I round on Aric. “I can’t stand you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

My brows raise. “Excuse me?”

He lifts one shoulder, like none of this costs him a thing. “What? You get to be the asshole, but I don’t?”

My jaw locks.

Who is this man?

Because he’s certainly not my husband.

Aric Vold doesn’t bait. He doesn’t needle. He sits inside his silence and lets everyone else trip over theirs. The sharp tongue, the dry little jabs—those are mine. And he’s wearing my weapons like he lifted them off me this morning.

“Ugh. Just don’t talk to me.” I stalk past him and drop into my seat, arms crossing tight, as if that could do anything about how aware I am of him—still there, still too close.