Deadly Oath

24. Kian

24

KIAN

T he next day, after I’m done with work for the day, I find myself in Louisville at a jeweler’s, picking out an engagement ring for Sabrina.

Surprisingly, she didn’t ask me about one. I’d expected my princess to have some cutting remark about how I’d proposed to her without a ring, something that even the business-minded suitors who would have courted her through her father would have likely had to present to her, when the betrothal contract was signed. But she said nothing, and in a strange way, that made me want to get her a ring even more.

The entire thing has me off-kilter, feeling unsettled and unsure of what it is exactly that I’m feeling. I picked a well-known but family-owned jeweler in Louisville to visit, and the easiest course of action would have been to plead masculine ignorance and ask the middle-aged, greying woman behind the counter with a sweet smile and eager expression to help me choose. It shouldn’t matter to me what ring I put on Sabrina’s finger, as long as one is there.

But instead, I find myself walking from case to case, looking at the sparkling display of rings, thinking of which one to choose for her. A diamond, obviously, for my princess. I look through a seemingly endless array, until the woman—who introduces herself as Julie—comes over to join me.

“What are you thinking of picking for the lucky lady?” she asks, and I scan the case again, considering what would suit Sabrina.

She’s different now from the woman she once was, wearing jeans and t-shirts instead of Chanel and Dior, cleaning her own kitchen instead of leaving it to a household staff to handle. But I think her style hasn’t changed, only her circumstances. I imagine if she had the ability to dress as she used to, she would.

“Large, but not too large,” I say slowly. “Elegant. In rose gold, I think. A carat, or maybe a carat and a half center stone, with additional stones around it.”

“I have a few that are perfect.” Julie reaches into the case, pulling out three different rings and setting them delicately on a velvet tray for me to view.

One is an emerald-cut diamond, a solitaire with baguettes on either side, clean and minimalist. Another is a princess cut with a diamond-encrusted band, and the third is an oval center stone, surrounded by diamond-studded scrollwork, with pave crushed diamonds along the band.

“That one.” I point to the ring with the scrollwork. “That one’s perfect.”

It’s elegant, delicate, and beautiful. I can picture it on Sabrina’s finger, and I press my lips together as I turn away, letting Julie box it up as I look at wedding bands. I shouldn’t care, and yet, I feel a leap of excitement as I think about giving it to her. More excitement than I should feel, given the circumstances.

This particular wedding shouldn’t require a ring at all, but as I take the bag and leave, I find myself worrying about whether or not she’ll like it. I can’t seem to get that thought out of my head as I drive back to her house, no matter how many times I tell myself that I didn’t need to get it at all, and as I park the truck, I find myself as nervous as if I were actually proposing to her.

Sabrina answers the door almost immediately, her forehead creasing. “I didn’t know you were coming over,” she says, and I shrug, offering her a lopsided smile.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Sabrina’s face lights up, and I wonder how long it’s been since someone has brought her a surprise, since she’s gotten a gift chosen just for her. And why do I care so much? I think as I step into the house. This marriage has nothing to do with love, a concept that Sabrina is well-acquainted with. So why would it matter to me that she looks as if I’ve made her entire day?

And why does the feeling in my chest, a warm bloom of something that’s suspiciously close to happiness, make me feel as if there’s more to this than I want to allow myself to admit?

We care for each other, I’d told her, and I’d thought it was a lie. I want her. I’m dangerously close to becoming obsessed with her—but there’s only one thing I’ve cared about for some time now. Or so I thought.

Caring for Sabrina—truly caring about her—would be a complication I don’t need. And I need to keep these emotions in check, if I’m going to do what I set out to accomplish.

Sabrina leads me into the living room, sinking down onto the couch, and I feel a throb as I remember what I did to her on this couch, that first night. Desire pulses through me, tempting me to forget about why I came here in the first place, but I reach into my jacket instead, pulling out the small velvet box in the inner pocket.

The moment she sees what’s in my hand, Sabrina goes very still. She looks at the small box, but I don’t see anticipation or greed in her eyes, the way I expected from the spoiled daughter of a Bratva pakhan . I see—surprise. Shock, even. Her eyes mist over slightly, and something tugs hard in my chest.

She looks at me with those wide blue eyes, waiting for me to say something, and for the first time in my life, I feel tongue-tied.

I know she’s confused. She’s expecting sentiments that I never planned to say. What was I thinking? An engagement ring should come with some kind of proposal, some kind of speech, but nothing that I should say feels genuine, and I’m struck by a strange new desire not to lie to her. Just as I was when we sat at the kitchen table, and I suggested this plan. She asked me if I would let her go, if she was unhappy, and I should have lied. I should have told her, of course , and soothed any worries she might have.

But I couldn’t bring myself to lie to her, for reasons I can’t explain even to myself. And the truth is I won’t let her go. Not until I’m ready to.

“I know this isn’t a traditional proposal, not even by the standards you’re used to,” I say finally. “But I thought you should have a ring. Anyway, it will make explaining all of this to your friends easier.”

There’s a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, as if she expected something more romantic. But then I open the box, and her mouth drops open slightly.

“It’s—” Tears well up at the edge of her lashes. “Kian, it’s beautiful. It’s perfect . How did you—” She blinks rapidly. “How did you figure out that’s what I would want?”

It’s a good question, one for which I don’t entirely have an answer. We’ve certainly never discussed rings or even jewelry. The topic of marriage or any desires around that never came up until I suggested this plan to her.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “It just looked right for you.”

“It’s perfect,” she says softly, and then she lifts her left hand, holding it out to me. “Put it on?”

There’s something soft and sweet in her voice that makes me feel that tug in my chest again, a feeling that I try to resist. But I slide the ring out of the box all the same, and when my fingers brush against hers, I feel a shiver go through us both.

It fits perfectly, and as I look at it sparkling on her finger in the low light, an uneasy feeling spreads through me. Her smile as she looks at it makes me feel warm, my heart lifting, her happiness sparking my own.

I can’t help but feel that I’ve fallen into my own trap, by asking Sabrina Petrova to marry me.

—

I’m glad that I have an excuse to leave. I have a fight, and I’m already dangerously close to missing it by stopping to give Sabrina the ring. I should have just waited, but I couldn’t bring myself to, which is a problem in and of itself.

The fight gives me something else to focus on, and I let myself think only about that as I drive out to the warehouse, letting the anticipation build for the outlet that it provides. It’s a different kind of release, and I’m craving it almost as much as I crave the release of sex—which is one kind I won’t be getting tonight.

As much as I know I’m going to want to go to Sabrina’s and fuck her when this is over, I’ve told myself that I won’t. Not tonight. I need space. I need to put my walls back up. And if I go to her tonight, with my ring on her finger and my emotions running high, it will be that much more difficult to accomplish.

I can already hear the raucous sounds coming from the warehouse as I pull up. There’s the smell of a bonfire further out behind it, and the air is bordering on cold as I slide out of the truck, grabbing my shorts as I head to the makeshift “locker room.”

This time, the odds on me winning are higher. Just that one thorough beating that I gave the favored fighter was enough to raise my esteem, and I plan on making it even better tonight. My hands are itching to curl into fists, my senses eager for pain and blood, for the rush of beating my opponent into the dirt. I need that release, that excuse to let out all the tangled, frustrated emotions that have been building up inside of me until it feels like I’m choking on them.

I barely notice the crowd cheering or hear anything that’s said as I head into the ring. My opponent, while beefier than the last guy I fought, looks nervous, and I wonder what the expression on my face must look like.

As soon as the start is called, I’m on him. My first blow goes directly for his jaw—whatever the crowd might want, I’m not here to put on a show—I’m here to win, as quickly and violently as possible. I want to stop thinking about how soft Sabrina’s expression was when she saw the ring, the way her voice sounded when she said yes, I’ll marry you, the strange anger that pulses through me every time I remember that she asked if I’d give her a divorce if she wanted one. I want to stop thinking about how it feels to claim her, to fuck her, the fact that she won’t be mine forever, and the stabbing pain in my chest every time I remember that.

I want to forget that while I’m supposed to be the hunter, and she the prey, I’ve somehow stepped into my own trap.

The man is on the ground before I even realize I’ve put him there, my knuckles coated with his blood, my chest heaving. He doesn’t get up, and I stagger back, realizing that I didn’t get hit even once. I’m almost disappointed—the pain of taking a hit is a kind of relief, too. A feeling that briefly eclipses all others, blocking out what I don’t want to feel.

A considerable wad of cash is pressed into my palm from the bookie as I leave the ring, and I shove it into my pocket, barely caring. A couple of the other guys on the card congratulate me as I walk past, and I nod, wanting nothing more, suddenly, than to be out of the hot, stifling warehouse.

I want to be back with Sabrina. And in that moment, as I realize that fact more strongly than ever, I promise myself something.

I won’t fuck her again until the wedding night. I’ll do my best to see her as little as possible, and play it off as romance, as building up the specialness of the occasion even though it’s a marriage of convenience. I’ll use that time to build my defenses back up, to remind myself of why I’m here. Of why this began in the first place.

The immediate resistance to that idea tells me that it’s the right decision.

Whether I like it or not.