Page 8 of By His Vow

The air crackles loudly as we all wait for his response.

My heart is a runaway train in my chest, but the second Kingston speaks, I’m pretty sure it runs straight off the tracks.

“I can’t promise you that, bro. But I can promise one thing…” I don’t breathe, I don’t do anything as I wait. “She’ll love every fucking second of it.”

I don’t move fast enough. Miles is on him like a rocket and the two of them crash into the desk, making Richard screech and jump to his feet.

“Stop it,” I scream. “Just fucking stop it.”

I try dragging Miles away, but I don’t achieve anything.

He’s lost to his anger. I get it. I really fucking get it.

If I believed I could cause Kingston any physical pain right now, I’d be doing the exact same thing.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any way on this Earth that I could hurt Kingston. He’s untouchable.

Just like our fathers and grandfathers.

So why? Why did Dad think this was a good idea?

Kingston doesn’t want me. He wants the blonde bimbos he usually spends time with. They stroke his ego—along with other things—and satisfy his needs. I shudder as I consider just what those needs consist of. Why would he ever agree to this? Why would he ruin his perfect bachelor life to be tied to me?

I shake my head, feeling stupid.

For power and wealth.

Is it ever anything else?

3

KINGSTON

Pain sears through my face and down my neck.

I expected it.

Although I’ve got to be honest, I expected Miles to keep a lid on it until we didn’t have an audience.

The fact he’s willingly doing this in front of both Richard and his sister shows just how un-fucking-happy he is with this turn of events.

Of course he’s unhappy. What big brother wants his sister with a man like me?

Miles knows me better than anyone else on the planet. And that isn’t a good thing in a situation like his.

With one more hit that makes the back of my head collide with his late father’s ornately carved walnut desk, he finally takes a step back, allowing me to draw in a breath and swallow down the pain.

My eyes flicker open, and the second his shadow moves aside, all I see is her.

Tatum Warner.

Her dark hair is wild and sitting in some kind of weird bird’s nest thing on the top of her head. She’s wearing a massive hoodie—one that I suspect is a man’s—and leggings. Not that I can see much of her legs.

Her face is pale, bare of makeup, and her eyes are surrounded by dark circles, evidence of the toll this week has taken on her.

I grit my teeth as I try to match the image before me with what I always thought my future wife might look like.

Despite my desire to never settle down and be forced to endure the bullshit that comes with being one half of a couple, I knew that I’d eventually have to.