Page 19 of Vows in Sin

R eign

It’s better this way—clean, final, like cauterizing a wound.

But that’s a lie. Every fucking hour she’s been gone, I’ve felt it—like a phantom limb I’ve lost but still try to move. Or a tool I need when I’m fixing my bike. One I know I’ve lost but still reach for.

A part of me is missing, shaped like a goddess, smelling like heaven.

I’m not supposed to care about pretty young things. But she’s under my skin. In my bones. She’s the goddamn ache in my chest I can’t ignore. I can smell her. Strawberries and something soft. Her sweet velvet scent. The echo of her.

It wraps around me, claws in.

Which is why I’m now standing in front of her building, staring up at the window of her apartment. The doorman tries to stop me, but one flash from the emblem on my watch and he knows to let me pass. I take the stairs two at a time, fists clenched.

Fifth floor.

Fuck. I’m getting old. Why didn't I take the elevator?

Her glossy black door faces me, the gold number of her apartment at the top. Staring at me, daring me to knock.

Why am I here?

I stand there, heart pounding like it’s ready to burst from my chest. The hallway is too quiet, the air too still, the scent of carpet and cleaner choking me, yet the atmosphere is laced with her—the perfume she wears when she’s trying to look effortless, the faintest trace of hairspray and lipstick and innocence.

The leather of her skirt. The clack of her hot pink heels. The scratch of those nails.

Raking up memories. Stirring everything I've tried to keep buried.

I knock. Once. Twice. Nothing. I press my palm flat against the door, jaw tight.

I slam my fist against the door again, harder this time. The wood shudders. Still no answer.

"Looking for someone, darling?" a theatrical voice floats down the hallway.

I turn, and there she is—Fifi. The retired Broadway diva who’s lived in this building since Sinatra was young. House robe, feathered slippers, bold red lipstick that somehow hasn’t smudged despite the hour.

She squints at me like I’m a poorly cast understudy.

“I knew it,” she says, one hand on her hip. “I knew someone like you would come sniffing around eventually. Tall, dark, tortured. All the signs. You boys always show up once the good ones leave.”

Leave?

“She’s gone?” I echo, but the words scrape like broken glass across my throat. My fists clench at my sides before I even register the motion, blood roaring in my ears.

“Oh, sugar. Packed a bag, put on red lipstick, and stormed out like she had a soundtrack behind her. Left in a fury. Said she was going after a man.”

Gone after a man?

A sick, possessive heat claws up my spine, flooding my chest. I imagine some nameless asshole touching her, hearing her laugh, looking into those eyes that are supposed to haunt only me.

The thought is a fucking poison.

No. She’s not theirs. She never was. She’s mine.

Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

“Did she say who?” I growl.

Fifi lifts a brow, clearly enjoying herself. “No. But she had that look—you know the one. Heartbreak mixed with righteous anger. God, I miss that kind of drama.”

I step closer, looming, but she doesn’t flinch. “Which direction?”

Fifi waves her hand vaguely toward the stairwell. “She said she needed answers. Closure. Or maybe revenge. Honestly, darling, I was distracted by her shoes. Fabulous little red heels. She always did know how to make an exit.”

I grind my teeth, heat rushing through me like gasoline catching flame.

Fifi’s smirk deepens as if she knows what’s going on in my head. I hate how much she’s enjoying this.

“She looked like she was chasing destiny,” Fifi muses. “Maybe trying to fix a mistake or make a bigger one. Either way, it’s romantic. Tragic. Bold.”

I clench my jaw so hard my molars ache. “You’ve been more than helpful.”

I nod once to Fifi, my jaw so tight it aches. I storm back down the stairs, boots pounding like gunfire on each step. My hand skims the rail, grip white-knuckled, mind a thunderstorm of emotion.

She left me.

For what? For answers? For someone else?

Dame is the only answer that comes to mind.

I need to know she’s safe. Then, I’ll forget about her for good this time.

I swing onto my bike like a goddamn reaper, the engine snarling to life beneath me like it senses my fury. The wind hits my face, cutting sharp and cold—but it doesn’t dull the flames inside.

I head toward the Village. I need the head of security right now. He can track her down.

As I fly down the street, the questions keep coming.

Most of all—why’d she keep coming back to me if Dame was the one she wanted?

Someone familiar with the streets would understand the risks of returning to the scene of their crime.

Wait. Fuck.

It hits me like a brick in the face going fifty.