Page 90 of Brutal Vows

Gianni appears as if he’s having a stroke at hearing the news that not only has he lost control of his daughter, he’s lost out on leveraging a blood tie to the second-largest cartel in the world.

Desperate not to lose anything else, he shouts at Declan, “Our families negotiated a contract in good faith!”

Declan smiles. “And the contract stands. Christ, I love weddings.”

Quinn says, “I hope you love receptions, too. You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

Quinn turns his attention to me. His eyes darken and his voice takes on a husky edge. “I’ve got a date with my wife tonight.”

He licks his lips, leaving no doubt as to his intentions.

TWENTY-ONE

REY

We’re in a limo. I don’t remember exactly how we got here. The past hour of my life has been such an overwhelming whirlwind of emotion, I can’t think straight.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to think straight again. My brain is broken. There’s a network of cracks all over the poor thing that looks exactly like my new husband’s dumb spiderweb tattoo.

Sitting beside me, Quinn stares at my profile in broody silence. Then he reaches over and drags me onto his lap.

“What the—”

“Easy,” he murmurs when I yelp in surprise. He winds his arms around me and holds me in a tight, possessive grip, gazing at me with hooded eyes. The skirt of the wedding dress poufs all around us like a cloud.

“Quinn, I’m not sitting on your lap!”

“Funny, but it looks like you are.”

“Let me go.”

“No. Now, listen. No, don’t start cursing at me.Listen.”

He takes my chin firmly in hand and turns my face so I’m forced to look at him. His voice low, he says, “You’re in shock.”

My laugh sounds crazed. “You think?”

“Aye. I’ve seen you stab a man in the neck without batting a lash and hunt armed intruders with the enthusiasm of a big-game poacher, but saying ‘I do’ seems to be beyond your stress threshold.”

“Marriage is beyond any rational woman’s stress threshold.”

His lips thin in displeasure. “I’m not your bloody dead husband.”

I try to look away, but he doesn’t let me. He keeps those fingers clasped around my jaw, holding my head in place.

Looking into my eyes, he demands, “Say it.”

I frown. “Say what?”

“That I’m not him.”

He’s deadly serious, his expression dark and his eyes darker. I don’t know why it’s so important to him, but I don’t have the presence of mind to figure it out. Or to argue.

All I really want is to take a bath, go to bed, and wake up tomorrow morning with someone else’s life.

“You’re not him.”