Page 3 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

I glide around the corner, fingertips dragging against the brick as I skitter along the wall.

I make my way to the back of the giant building that is Gotcha’s.

A red monster truck is parked in the back alley.

I crouch behind the truck, concealing myself.

From this vantage point, I can see the large metal rear door.

Dumpsters flank the alley. Even the beautiful Bachmans make garbage.

When someone comes out, I’ll slip in.

My heart sits in my throat as I peer around the shiny chrome bumper. My knees burn in my squat stance. It’ll all be worth it if I can get in and talk to Dame. Remind him of the connection we had…

Or put all this behind me and finally be able to focus on other things—wait.

The doors open. A slender, tall man wearing a black ball cap with bushy sideburns heads out, a black garbage bag in his hand.

With the toe of his black hightop Converse, he pushes a loose brick in front of the door to keep it from closing.

Whistling, he takes his time, meandering over to the dumpster with the bag. He hauls it over the top, and it drops in the bin with a satisfying thump.

Light perspiration dots my hairline, prickles under my arms. What will he do next?

He slips his phone from his pocket. Pauses, then glances up. Straight at the truck. Oh god. I flatten myself against the big tire. Did he see me? Can he see my feet? My heart palpitates.

I can’t look. I need to look. I peer over the bed of the truck at Sideburns. He’s staring down at his phone screen. He didn’t see me! Or did he? Is he texting another Bachman? Telling them he’s seen a poorly dressed woman hiding behind a monster truck?

“Yes! Bonus points!”

Wait, he’s playing a game? He’s using trash duty as an excuse for a quick round of whatever is on his phone screen. He swipes, congratulating himself on another win.

Then he turns his back on me.

This is my chance!

Running silently, I tiptoe along the pavement, the door mere feet away. A surge of adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream as I step over the threshold. I’m in!

Kinda. Facing forward is light and sound.

The club must be straight ahead. Glancing down at my outfit, I opt for turning left, towards the open door to what looks like a storage room.

The room is dark—the perfect place to hide out.

Passing metal shelves of towels, soap, and cleaning supplies, I sneak to the darkest corner, press my back to the wall, and take a beat to catch my breath.

I bump my fist against the wall behind me. “I did it!”

My heart rate slows, the blood no longer whooshing in my eardrums.

The sound of the heavy back door closing echoes. I freeze, listening as footsteps and whistles grow near, stopping outside the partially open door of the room I’m in. I plaster myself to the wall, holding my breath. I squeeze my eyes shut.

If I can’t see him, he can’t see me?

The whistling moves on, growing fainter.

When I can finally breathe again, I exhale with a shaky whoosh.

My fingers fumble as I undress, removing my hat and slipping the glasses inside, then wrapping the dress around the hat.

Looking around for somewhere safe to store the getup, I tuck it onto a low shelf between two cardboard boxes, like that’ll somehow protect it.

I smooth down my short, shimmering silver dress and fluff my curls. With the costume gone, the pink high heels I wear are restored to glory. All set.

I’ll wait a few more minutes—just long enough to be sure no one’s coming back—then follow the music.

Hiding in the quiet of the shadows, my confidence builds. I take the silence as my time to move. My heels echo softly as I inch even closer to the door, heart thudding. Thoughts of the dancefloor, the lights, the music, and Dame push me forward.

I step into the better-lit hallway. The closed rear door is to my right, the faint beat of drums to my left, calling me to the dance floor. Finally, my chance! All the heartache, the pain of waiting for the texts that never came, the ugly dress.

It all leads to this.

Sideburns materializes out of nowhere.

“Oh!” I yelp, stumbling back a step. My heart lurches into my throat. For a terrifying second, I’m not entirely sure I haven’t peed myself a little.

He stands, staring at me, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Hello.”

“Hi?” I croak.

Think fast, Seraphina.

I plaster on a wide, clueless smile. “ThankGod! I’ve been wandering around for ages—I was searching for the bathroom and somehow ended up in a storeroom.” I let out a breathy, nervous laugh and gesture vaguely toward a hallway that absolutely doesn’t lead to any bathrooms. “Total maze back here.”

Ignoring my excuse, he demands, “Do you really think we leave the back open for randoms?”

“Back door? Who said anything about the back door?” I give a manic laugh. “No, no, obviously, I was in the club and got lost.”

He stands there, eyeing me, his smug smirk growing into a lethal grin.

He knows I came in the back door.

I realize what’s happening a few beats too late.

My world shrinks in an instant. A cool sweat creeps along my hairline. My words are barely audible. “The whole thing with the door being open, you on your phone?—”

“Pretending to be on my phone,” he corrects. “You think I have time for games?”

What are my options?

Try to run, but it’s a narrow doorway, and I’m not going to get by him. Turn around and trap myself in the storeroom. I can only stay confident. Play it off. Try to get out of this.

“You waltzed right into our trap. We eliminate pests.”

Eliminate?

His words make an icy chill trip down my spine.

Feigning a confidence I don’t feel, I lock eyes with Sideburns. “UGH. So rude. Please don’t refer to yours truly as vermin. Don’t you know an Armani dress when you see one?”

Bored, he gazes at my dress. “Don’t care.”

I pat my curls, a picture of angelic innocence. “Anyway, I’m supposed to meet someone here tonight, but he must have forgotten to give me one of those pink bracelet things?—

“Pink is only for Beauties. Women married into the family,” he clarifies with a smirk.

Deep swallow. Think fast.

“Okay, you’ve got me.” I stroke my shimmery dress. “This Armani is from the early 2000s, not quite vintage, but affordable. So whatever color bracelets the peasants get, that’s what I need. Dame forgot to give me one.”

My fib is met with a knitted brow. “You know Dame?”

“Yes, I do.” First truth I’ve told this man tonight. The dress is actually third-hand Armani Exchange, not the genuine article. Cost me $12.

“Why didn’t you meet Dame out front like the rest of his fan club?” he asks.

Fan club. Ouch. That stings.

I jut my chin. “I was supposed to call him when I got here, but my phone died.”

“There are other phones.”

“No one has phone numbers memorized these days. Surely someone who spends their work time playing games on their phone gets that.”

“I told you we don’t play games.” He strokes his sideburns as one brow dips below the brim of his hat. “I’m getting shady vibes off you.”

“I’m insulted.” I shimmy, making the sparkles on my dress dance. “I think I’m giving off disco ball vibes tonight.”

He slips his phone out of his pocket. “I’m getting Reign.”

“Reign?”

“Reign,” he confirms. His eyes lock with mine. “He’ll know what to do with you.”

“Do with me?” I echo back like a parrot.

Before I have the good sense to run, a man materializes out of nowhere, standing behind Sideburns. He’s essentially a wall of muscle. Massive arms slowly fold over his enormous chest, biceps bulging. A deep, gruff voice rumbles through the tension. “We have a problem?”

Sideburns rats me out. “Fell for our sneak in the back door number. Thought I’d leave her to you.”

Reign nods. “Go on then.”

Sideburns offers me a parting glance before taking off down the hall.

Reign takes a step forward, and I instinctively take one back—until my spine hits a metal shelf.

I stare up into the eyes of a bearded man who looks like he either wants to kill me or gobble me up in one bite.

His irises are such a striking shade of my favorite green; I don’t know if my knees go weak from fear or from locking eyes with the man.

His size, his energy; he’s got me shaken. My heart hammers in my ears as I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just stares. And in that silence, something shifts in the room—like the oxygen rearranges itself to make space for him.

“Do you talk?” he finally says, his voice low and gravel-rough. The kind that slides down your spine like a cold blade.

I blink. My mouth opens. Closes.

What is this man going to do to me?