Page 73 of Brutal Vows

“Probably the priciest, too,” I mutter.

“They sell for between one to five million per carat, depending on clarity and cut.”

When I send him a sour glance, he smiles like a used car salesman. “But who can put a price on true love?”

“Me,” I say flatly. “And it isn’t five million bloody quid.”

The manager glances at Reyna, who’s giving me a look that could melt solid steel.

“Butdarling,” she purrs, slinky as a panther. “Aren’t I worth it?”

I narrow my eyes at her.

She smiles.

Sensing a power play between us and an opportunity to profitfrom it, the manager says to Reyna, “If you’re looking for somethingreallyunusual, try this.”

He opens the back of the case with a key from the chain on his wrist, removes a clear acrylic stand, and sets it on the glass counter. On the stand sits a ring composed of a simple rose gold band with an enormous bloodred stone set in the middle. It glitters and flashes under the light like it’s alive.

“Is that a ruby?” says Reyna, frowning at it.

The manager replies in a hushed voice. “It’s a red diamond. One of only a few ever mined. It contains zero impurities and is absolutely flawless.”

It’s also the exact color of Reyna’s lush lips.

I stare at it, mesmerized by the vivid hue.

“Try it on,” the manager urges, pulling the ring off its stand.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Reyna starts to protest. But the manager has seized her hand and is already sliding the ring onto her left ring finger.

She yanks her hand away, but it’s too late.

The ring sparkles on her finger like a big, brilliant drop of blood.

She holds her hand out as far away from her body as it will reach and gapes at it with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s pale, and her hand is trembling.

I’m not sure, but I think she’s about to vomit.

Very gently, I grasp her wrist and slide the ring off her finger. The tattoo on her skin appears somehow darker, the slanting script seeming to crawl like hissing snakes.

I blink, and the illusion is gone.

Reyna murmurs something in Italian, then exhales a shaky breath.

“It is, isn’t it?” says the manager, beaming.

I hand the ring back to him. “You know Italian?”

He nods. “My mother was born in Rome. I never lived there, but we were brought up as kids speaking it at home. I took some college courses as well.”

Reyna pulls her arm from my grip. “Please excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”

“Yes, of course. Just through that archway. Second door on your left.”

Nodding distractedly, she hurries away without looking back.

As the manager is putting the ring back into the case, I say in a low voice, “Did you happen to see the tattoo on my fiancée’s ring finger?”