A vow of Violence

Isolde Sterling

The champagne tasted like guilt. Expensive, crisp, and bubbling with a sweetness that made me want to retch.

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Shard, blurring the lights of London into a kaleidoscope of gold and misery. Inside, the air was perfumed with orchids and the scent of old money. The elite of the United Kingdom had gathered for the "Event of the Decade"-my engagement party.

"Smile, darling," Harrison Thorne whispered against my ear. His hand rested on the small of my back-possessive, heavy, and entirely unwelcome. "The Prime Minister is looking."

I adjusted the strap of my dress. It was a custom Versace, midnight blue silk that clung to my body like a second skin, cut dangerously low in the back to expose the curve of my spine. It was a weapon of a dress, designed to distract, to seduce, and to proclaim status. My figure was the envy of the room-an hourglass silhouette honed by hours of pilates and sheer genetic luck-but tonight, I felt like cattle being auctioned.

"I am smiling, Harrison," I murmured, my lips painted a deep, blood-red crimson. "I'm radiating joy."

"You look exquisite," he said, his eyes darkening as they swept over the swell of my breasts. "Tonight, we solidify the merger. The Sterling shipping lanes and the Thorne banking empire. We will be untouchable."

Harrison was handsome in a sterile, polished way. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a jawline bought by the best surgeons in Switzerland. He was the Golden Prince of London. And he was the man who had helped murder his own brother five years ago to get here.

I took a sip of champagne to wash away the bile. I knew the truth. Everyone in the inner circle suspected it, but no one spoke of it. Julian Thorne, the dark sheep, the "bastard" heir, had vanished during a yacht trip in the Mediterranean. Presumed drowned.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Harrison's father, Lord Alistair Thorne, tapped a spoon against his crystal glass. The room went silent. "Tonight, we celebrate the future!"

The double doors at the far end of the ballroom groaned.

They didn't just open; they were pushed with a force that rattled the hinges. The silence that followed wasn't polite; it was the silence of a heart stopping.

A man stood in the threshold. He was soaking wet.

He wore a black trench coat that dripped rainwater onto the pristine marble floor. Beneath it, a bespoke charcoal suit strained against broad, powerful shoulders-shoulders far wider than I remembered. His hair was jet black, slicked back by the rain, and a jagged, pale scar ran through his left eyebrow, ruining the perfect symmetry of a face that looked like it had been carved by a cruel god.

He radiated violence. It wasn't the magical aura of fantasy novels; it was the tangible, terrifying pressure of a predator entering a pen of sheep.

Harrison's hand crushed my waist. "Impossible," he hissed.

The man walked forward. His gait was heavy, rhythmic. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of a funeral drum.

He stopped ten feet from the podium. He looked at Lord Alistair, who had turned the color of ash. Then, he looked at Harrison. Finally, his eyes-dark, volatile, burning with a cold blue fire-landed on me.

A shiver, electric and terrifyingly erotic, shot down my spine. My nipples hardened against the silk of my dress, a traitorous reaction to the sheer masculine menace rolling off him.

"Sorry I'm late," Julian Thorne said, his voice a deep baritone that vibrated in the floorboards. He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. "I had to climb out of hell to get here."