Ruined Vows Read Online Stasia Black

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Suspense Tags Authors: Stasia Black Advertisement1

Advertisement2

Kira hesitates, her jaw tight, before pulling out her phone. She scrolls through her photos with quick, precise movements, then holds the screen out to me.

Our fingers brush. Hers are small, cool against the rough calluses of my hand. She flinches slightly—just a flicker—but enough for me to notice.

But then I see the image, and everything else drops away.

She’s taken a picture of a bedspread scattered with photo printouts. They’re close-ups of Kira’s face—candid shots taken from a distance, invasive angles like she’s prey under surveillance. Mixed among them, something darker. Pictures of something bloody. And scattered among the pictures, crushed black rose petals.

My jaw locks.

“I’ll take the job,” I say, the words sharp and final. “Industry standard salary. I start now.”

No one says a word.

But Kira’s eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see something raw slip through her polished mask—relief tangled with fear.

And maybe that’s why I take the job. Not because she asked. Not because Domhn trusts me, and frankly it feels good to be trusted again after all these years.

No, I’ll take the job because I hated the look of fear on her face, and the second she looked at me like I could help… I knew I’d stand between her and a bullet if it kept that look from ever crossing her beautiful face again.

TWO

KIRA

I sit stiffly in the passenger seat of Isaak's truck, gripping my Birkin bag in my lap. My finger runs back and forth over the little gold clasp, once, twice, three times.

"You really didn't have to start right away," I say, trying to break the tension that crackles between us.

Back and forth, my finger dances over the clasp. Back and forth. Ten times. Then, ten more times. Then another ten more. Dammit. Did I lose count last time? Shit, now I have to start all over again. One, two, three⁠—

"No good taking chances when the threat's real." Isaak’s gray eyes briefly leave the road to glance my way.

I nod, swallowing hard. The photos on my bed. The roses. The blood. I still don't know if it was real or staged, but either way, it was a message. One I can't ignore anymore.

"Where's your place at?" he asks, voice gruff but not unkind.

I give him my address, watching his massive fingers punch it into his phone. There's something mesmerizing about how someone so large can move with such precision.

"West Dallas," he comments. "Figures."

My cheeks heat. I know what he's thinking—another rich girl living in her bubble. He's not even wrong. But he doesn't know the whole story either. I know my parents' money smoothed the path, but I've also worked hard for everything I have.

I clutch my thighs tighter together to avoid the eight-inch gash in the bench seat that exposes the yellow stuffing underneath. I don't want to imagine all the things that have happened on this bench seat. It's fine. I'll just shower when I get home. With extra hot water.

The truck roars to life, and I grab the handle above my head as we accelerate. Every muscle in my body tenses.

"Relax," he says, throwing me a look that's half smirk, half genuine concern. "You'll enjoy the ride more that way."

There's a double entendre there that sends heat spiraling through me. I try to stamp it out, but I can't help noticing how his forearms flex as he grips the steering wheel. And how sharp and handsome his profile is in the dim light.

"Is it entirely necessary to drive so recklessly?" I ask, trying to distract myself from intrusive thoughts that flash unbidden through my mind: What if I just grabbed the wheel? Or opened the door and jumped out?

Jesus, what is wrong with me?

Issak chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. "Reckless? I used my blinker."

Despite my anxiety, I almost smile. Almost.

"Men," I still mutter under my breath, immediately regretting it when his expression hardens.

"Oh, I get it. You're one of those."

"One of what?" I challenge, even though I know exactly what he means.

"Lemme guess. You're the kind of feminist who thinks all men are trash. Especially us big Texas boys with our big trucks."

I turn toward him, forgetting my anxiety for a moment. "Do you ever actually haul anything with this big truck?"

"All the time," he says. "When I got back from the sandbox, I worked construction and was hauling all kinds of shit back and forth."

"Sandbox?"

"Afghanistan," he clarifies with a sigh.

Something softens in me. "How long were you there?"

"Two terms. Seven years."

"Thank you for your service," I say quietly, meaning it.

He glances at me, something unreadable passing across his face. "Ya know, I never know what to say when people tell me that. Especially someone like you."

"Someone like me?" I echo, feeling defensive again.

"When the war was happening, did you even give it more than a passing thought?"


Advertisement3

Advertisement4