Page 29 of Crushed Vow (Broken Vows #2)

CHARLOTTE

Luca wiped the blood off his nose with the back of his hand, his jaw hanging slack in disbelief.

His lips curled into a smug, twisted smile as crimson dripped down his face. “You dare to hit me?”

His voice was drenched in mockery, like he couldn’t believe Cassian had the audacity, but then he laughed—a low, mocking sound that scraped beneath my skin.

“In three days, we’ll see if you’re not the one on your knees begging me for mercy.

Or maybe...” His eyes flicked to me. “Maybe I’ll be mourning the girl you’re losing your mind over. ”

Cassian didn’t flinch. He simply stepped forward.

Another punch landed—this one brutal, fast, and final. A single, clean hit to the face that dropped Luca like a collapsing wall.

His massive frame hit the pavement with a thud that echoed down the street like a thunderclap. People passed by, glancing, whispering—but none of them dared stop.

Cassian stood over him, unflinching. Eyes dead.

“You crossed a line,” Cassian said, voice cold enough to freeze breath. “You opened your mouth about her one more time—after I warned you.”

He leaned down just enough for his voice to slice the air like a knife.

“You’re only alive because of the promise I made to our mother,” he said. “But keep testing me, and I’ll send you to hell where our father is rotting.”

Luca spat blood, laughing through the agony. “She’ll still be mine,” he rasped. “She’s meant for me. You stole her from me, Cassian. I’ll have her one way or the other. Maybe I’ll fuck her little creamy pussy while you watch.”

Time stopped.

Cassian’s entire body went too still. Not the calm of a man restraining himself. The calm of a storm about to detonate.

His hand slid into his coat pocket, and before I could even process what was happening, he drew his dagger in one swift motion and drove it directly into Luca’s left eye.

I gasped and turned away, a scream breaking out of my throat. But the sound of it—the sound of the blade cracking bone and the howling that followed—haunted the air.

Luca screamed like a wounded animal.

“You knew better,” Cassian said coldly. “I told you not to fuck with me.”

I turned back just in time to see him pull away, the dagger still buried in Luca’s eye socket. Blood soaked his face, his shirt, even his throat. He looked like a monster... a devil drenched in red.

But at least he was a monster who wouldn’t hurt me.

Cassian turned to me, eyes still wild with fury, and took my hand. “Let’s go.”

He led me to the car I’d driven here in, took the keys from my trembling fingers, and slid into the driver’s seat. I sat beside him, stunned into silence.

“Luca has evil plans,” I murmured at last. “Should I be scared?”

Cassian’s expression didn’t change. “No. I’ll always be one step ahead. “But you need to always keep me updated about your movements, Charlotte.” His voice wasn’t demanding—it was low, almost pleading.

“I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”

“Alright,” I whispered, watching the streaks of crimson still clinging to his jaw. “Is your vision getting better?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other twitching slightly at his side.

“I’m allergic to smoke,” he said finally. “You know that. But I ran into the fire to save you.”

I turned my head slowly, eyes narrowing. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I’m suffering the consequences,” he admitted, voice low. “And it’s not just my eyes, Charlotte. It’s more than that.”

My stomach sank. “What else?”

He hesitated so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he gave me a faint, bitter smile. “It won’t matter in the long run.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” I snapped. “Is it something serious? A health problem? Something you did?”

“Both,” he said simply.

My chest tightened with dread. A million worst-case scenarios flashed through my mind. “Explain.”

He pulled up in front of the house. Didn’t look at me. “We’re not married,” he said, voice almost too calm. “You don’t owe me loyalty. And I don’t owe you the truth.”

I stared at him.

“I can’t marry someone who keeps secrets from me,” I whispered.

He didn’t reply.

I got out. I didn’t even look back as I crossed the road and went into the building opposite. But my thoughts spun like a storm inside my skull.

What was wrong with him? Was he dying? Had something irreversible happened?

I shouldn’t care. Not after everything he’s done. But somehow, that old instinct to worry—it was still there, alive and kicking, even after all the hurt.

Still, as much as what Cassian did to Luca horrified me... it had also satisfied a dark, broken part of me.

After showering, I slipped on one of Ethan’s shirts. It was oversized, soft, and smelled like laundry detergent. My chest still looked wrong. Misshapen. Scarred. But his shirt made me feel a little more... hidden.

I stared at myself in the mirror, then moved to the living room. I just wanted this war to end. This chaos. I wanted a life again. I used to dream about owning an art gallery—my own space, lined with sketches and oil paintings, a haven of color in a world like this.

Maybe someday I’d have it. A shop with tall windows. People walking by. My name on the glass.

To distract myself, I picked up my sketchpad and charcoal. I started to draw a hill, carefully shading the curves, using crosshatching for depth. I added a lone figure at the top, gazing into the wind—small, but certain.

I didn’t hear the door open.

“This isn’t one of the clothes I had my men buy for you,” Cassian said from across the room.

I froze. Then looked up, calmly. “Yeah?”

“And how exactly do you memorize every outfit you got for me?” I replied.

His fists clenched. “Whose shirt is that?”

I dropped my pencil. “It’s Ethan’s. So what?”

“Take it off.”

“No.” I stood, arms crossed. “We’re not in a relationship. You don’t get to dictate what I wear.”

“Charlotte, I’m not going to ask again.”

“Good,” I shot back. “Because I’m not going to answer again.”

He looked like he could break the world with one hand.

But I didn’t flinch.

“You’re mine, Charlotte. Wearing another man’s shirt while living in my house is a gross disrespect to me.”

I shot to my feet, defiance burning in my chest. “Then I’ll leave your fucking house.”

His eyes, hidden behind the concave glass, darkened with a dangerous intensity.

“And you think I’d let you? It’s not safe out there, and no, I’ll never stop keeping eyes on you.

” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a growl.

“I bought you the most expensive clothes, Charlotte—silks, linens, everything you could want. And you abandon them for Ethan’s cheap, used shirt? ”

“I do what I want,” I snapped, my hands curling into fists, my heart pounding.

“Take that shirt off,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “before I do something crazy.”

He moved toward me, his stride purposeful, his face a storm of rage and obsession I’d never seen before.

He looked like a man unhinged, a psychopath consumed by his need for me, and it sent a shiver of fear—and thrill—down my spine.

I crossed my arms, glaring at him. “If I take it off, I’ll be naked. You’ll see everything. The scars...”

“Your scars are mine,” he said, his voice softening but no less intense. “Take. It. Off.”

Anger flared, but I held his gaze as I yanked the shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor.

I stood there, exposed, my chest bare without the breast pads. The air felt cold against my skin, my scars stark and vulnerable under his scrutiny.

“Go ahead,” I said, my voice trembling with defiance and pain. “Mock me. Say I look like a man, that I’m incomplete, that I’m not woman enough. Go on.”

He closed the distance between us, his presence overwhelming, but instead of cruelty, there was something else in his eyes—something reverent.

With a swift motion, he shoved the table aside, my drawing materials clattering to the floor, and knelt before me.

I froze, my breath catching as he looked up at me, his gaze soft but fierce. “No,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I’ll never mock you again, Charlotte. Instead, I’ll worship your scars—now and forever.”

Before I could process his words, his lips brushed against the jagged scar across my chest, a featherlight kiss that sent a jolt through me.

I almost flinched, but his hands steadied me, warm and grounding on my hips.

He kissed the scar again, slow and deliberate, tracing the uneven lines with a tenderness that made my skin prickle with goosebumps.

No one had touched me there since the surgery, not like this.

His lips were soft, reverent, as if each kiss was a vow, each touch a promise to cherish the parts of me I’d hidden from the world.

He moved along the scar’s path, his breath warm against my skin, his tongue grazing the raised edges with such care that I felt my insecurities unraveling, replaced by a warmth that bloomed deep in my core.

“Your scars are mine, Charlotte,” he murmured against my skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.

“You don’t need to feel insecure with me.

I love you this way—exactly as you are.”

My body trembled, not from fear but from the overwhelming intimacy of his touch, the way he claimed my vulnerabilities as his own.

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back, lost in the sensation of his lips on my skin, rewriting my pain into something sacred.

I wasn’t prepared for this. For him to kneel like I was some kind of altar and he was bleeding worship from his mouth.

“I’m scared,” I whispered.

He looked up. “You don’t need to be scared of being unlovable around me.”

He reached up slowly, cupped my waist, and rested his cheek against my belly like he was anchoring himself.

My hands hovered over his shoulders before I let myself touch him—gently, hesitantly. His bloodied shirt brushed my thighs.

He rose, his eyes locking with mine, and brought his lips to my mouth.