Page 73 of Vow to Claim You

The man I swore I’d never belong to has started to feel less like a sentence and more like the only solid ground I have left. And it’s terrifying, because it also feels like an impossible illusion I’m afraid might break the moment I open my eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Aric

Iwake before Ayanna does. Sometime during the night, she drifted toward me and never drifted back. She’s not tucked against my chest, but she’s close enough that I can feel her breath ghosting over my arm. That’s new. Every other night we’ve shared a bed, she’s slept as far from me as the mattress allowed.

Grief exhausted her. I recognize that kind of exhaustion. The kind that hits after the adrenaline fades and reality settles like concrete in your lungs.

I should get up. Shower. Check messages. Review the transport reports Leandro sent through last night. Be productive. Be the man I’ve always been—controlled, efficient, detached.

Instead, I lie there, watching her.

I exhale slowly, careful not to wake her.

This marriage was supposed to be logistics. Alliance. Damage control. A calculated move in a war between families. Nothing emotional. Nothing personal.

And now?

Now her safety is my only religion. Her smile, my obsession.

That wasn’t part of the contract.

I slide out from under the covers an inch at a time, then ease my weight off the mattress so it won’t dip and stir her. I take my shower cold. It keeps the head clear, and mine needs clearing this morning more than most. I let it work until the noise behind my eyes goes quiet, then dress halfway and step back into the room, toweling the water from my hair.

She’s awake, propped on one elbow, the sheet pooled at her waist, blinking the sleep from her eyes while the early Monsera light spills gold across the bed.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.”

For a moment, we just keep looking at each other. No words. Like none are needed.

And I realize, with a clarity I resent, that the part of me trained for war—negotiation, intimidation, all the things I do effortlessly—has absolutely no playbook for this.

For waking up beside my arranged wife and feeling reluctant to leave the room.

For wanting to make sure she eats. Sleeps. Doesn’t cry again.

For knowing the exact shade her eyes turn when the sunlight catches them.

It’s too much. Too quiet, too warm, too real—and I have no idea what to do with a thing I can’t control. So I do the only thing I know how to do with one.

I end it.

“I’m going down to find Eero.” I reach for my shirt.

It’s a lie. Eero can stay in bed until noon for all I care. But the room’s gone too small and the silence too honest, and retreat is the only maneuver I have left.

She doesn’t call me on it. Maybe she sees through it. Maybe she’s grateful for the exit too.

“I’ll meet you at breakfast,” she says, sinking back into the pillows and draping an arm over her eyes.

I leave before I can think better of leaving.

The estate is quiet at this hour, the white marble glowing soft in the morning light. I find Leandro in the living area, sunk into an armchair with a newspaper open in his hands, coffee steaming at his elbow, reading glasses low on his nose. The portrait of a decent man we both know isn’t true.

He looks up over the rims. “Aric. Sit. Have coffee with your father-in-law.”