Vow of Deception: A Dark Marriage Mafia Romance (Deception Trilogy Book 1)

My mouth opens as my knee hits the edge of the tub.

Being this close, I’m taken hostage by him—and it’s not only due to his grip on my wrist. He’s naked, and while the water covers most of his body, it’s transparent and every inch of him is exposed.

His shoulders are broad, framing defined biceps. Black tattoos are inked along the length of his taut arm that’s holding me. His other hand rests close to his tapered waist that leads to a rock-hard abdomen.

Not sure if it’s because of the water, but his thighs appear powerful and hard like in those commercials for football players. I force myself to gaze somewhere else and not at his half-erect cock.

How is it possible for someone to exude such physical perfection? His beauty isn’t loud like a movie star’s or a model’s. It’s quiet, just like his personality. Lethal, too, because if his eyes were a knife, I’d be bleeding in this bathtub right now.

I frown at that image. Bleeding…

Adrian cuts off my train of thought when he lifts my hand to his nose and a muscle moves beneath his jaw as he sucks in a long breath. “Were you touching yourself, Lia?”

“No…” My voice is strangled, hushed, and a bit hoarse, as if I’m still trapped in that nightmare.

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone is calm but threatening. “I smell your cunt on these fingers.”

“I said no.”

“That’s your first strike. Lie to me again and I’ll punish you.”

Memories from the nightmare strangle me by the throat and suffocate every ounce of air from my surroundings.

He’ll strip me bare and fuck me now. He’ll take me like an animal and leave me without anything. He’ll confiscate my power and my will.

His hold on my wrist is firm and heats my flesh like a thousand flames, intending to burn me from underneath my skin.

My lips tremble and I dig my nails into the ceramic edge of the tub to keep myself in a bent position. “Please…don’t…don’t…”

Adrian releases my hand and I stumble until my back hits the glass door of the shower. I remain there, both palms flattened on the cold surface and my bare feet curling against the tiles.

“What is wrong?” He’s speaking with the Russian accent, not the American one from my nightmare.

“N-nothing.”

He stands up all wet and…naked.

He’s completely naked.

Although I caught a glimpse of him in the bathtub, nothing could’ve prepared me for this view. His thighs are muscled and taller than I predicted. Fine hairs form a trail on his taut chest and down to…

I snap my gaze up before I start ogling his cock. In my attempt to study anything but him, I’m caught off guard by his tattoos. I saw one earlier, but I didn’t see the other. Both his arms are marked. Full sleeves of black ink intertwine over his arms like a labyrinth.

Just like in the nightmare.

While I could’ve hallucinated about biting my hand, this can’t be made up. I’ve never seen Adrian unclothed, so there’s no way I’d guess he has inked arms.

I reach for the nearest thing I can find, which happens to be a ceramic soap bottle, and point it in his direction. “Stay away from me!”

“Lia,” Adrian says the name softly.

“I’m not Lia! I’m Winter!”

“Calm down.” He continues approaching me, stalking toward me with silent footsteps that I can barely hear.

“I said stay away from me!” I shriek, my voice turning hysterical.

He stops, raising one hand. “Fine. I’m staying away, so put that down.”

I shake my head frantically, nails sinking into the solid ceramic. “I’m leaving. I’m not spending another minute in this godforsaken place or with you!”

A shadow passes over his features, thunderous and quiet, almost as if he’s…angry. Why the hell would he be? I’m the one who’s angry. I’m the one who was forced out of my safe cocoon to be here.

“Give me that bottle, Lia.”

“No! And stop calling me Lia!”

My hands flail about and I hear the crack before I see it. The bottle hits the wall and crashes against it. White liquid soap drips down my hand and onto the ground, and then a trail of blood follows.

A broken ceramic piece has sunk into my skin. A sting of pain explodes on my flesh before blood flows from my palm. I release what remains of the bottle, letting it crash to the ground.

“Fuck!” Adrian hurries toward me, plucks the piece out, leaving a small gash that burns when soap mixes with the wound.

Adrian throws the bloodied ceramic piece in the sink and wipes the soap away. His brow furrows over his darkened eyes and his lips thin into a line.

I squirm against him. “Let me go, you monster! Let me go!”

“Stop,” he orders and I flinch, going limp.

The word, although singular, is so authoritative that my muscles have locked together at hearing it.

Adrian grabs a beige towel, runs it under the sink, and presses it to my palm. He releases a breath when the blood doesn’t soak it for long. As if he’s worried about me. As if my well-being means shit in his agenda.

Why is he acting like this? I just can’t understand why he’s not the callous devil he should be.

His attention doesn’t break from my palm as he speaks, “I don’t know why you’re behaving like this all of a sudden, but why don’t you tell me?”

“Are you trying to pretend that you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

I purse my lips. A second ago, I was so certain it wasn’t a nightmare, but now, I’m not so sure. However, the bite mark and the tattoos couldn’t have been a figment of my imagination.

“You raped me just now.” My voice starts low, then grows in volume. “You forced yourself on me, even when I begged you to stop!”

Adrian’s hand pauses at my wound and he meets my gaze with his darker ones. For the first time since I met him, I really, really wish I could see behind those eyes. Just to know what’s happening in there. What type of thoughts go into his abnormal brain?

“I didn’t rape you,” he says ever so casually.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“You should.”

“I know what I felt.” It was too vivid of a nightmare, too…real. So real that I can still feel his thrusts in me.

“If I wanted to fuck you, I wouldn’t need to rape you for it.” He glides the towel over my hand. “What made you think that I did it?”

“I just told you, I felt it.”

“Felt it how?” His voice is too calm for this conversation. Too infuriating. I want to reach into his armor and yank him out—that is, if there’s anything to yank out. Sometimes, he seems like a shell.

A nothingness that can’t be touched or altered.

“What type of question is that? I just felt it. Besides, I bit my hand when you raped me and look!” I show him the teeth marks on my non-injured palm. “How do you explain this?”

“You could’ve bitten your hand while you were sleeping.”

“That’s not possible, because I sleep completely still. Besides”—I motion at his ink—“I saw your tattoos when I never have before this moment.”

“You could be projecting seeing them now to the past.”

“That doesn’t make any sense! You think I’m an idiot?”

“And you think I’m under the obligation to explain myself to you?” His voice loses all casualness, lowering, hardening, stifling. “I don’t need to force myself on you and, therefore, I didn’t rape you. It must’ve been a nightmare.”

“It couldn’t have been a nightmare. I don’t dream.”

“You probably just started.”

“Don’t try to make me seem crazy. I’m not.”

He stops gliding the towel over the wound. “Are you sore?”

His question catches me off guard and I pause as my legs clench together.

“Are you, Lia? Because if, as you said, I raped you, you wouldn’t be able to move.”

“I…”

“What?”

“…Am not.” Aside from the soaked panties, there’s no discomfort whatsoever between my legs or in my muscles. Considering it’s been a long time since I had sex, I would be sore.

“There. Your answer.” He tosses the towel in the sink and reaches into the cabinet, retrieving a first aid kit.

His shoulder muscles strain with the motion and his tattoos expand. I want to study them, to see if there’s a symbol I recognize, but his full nakedness doesn’t help me in my quest to focus.

I really don’t want to be ogling him right now.

Forcing my gaze away, I concentrate on an invisible dot on the opposite wall. A sense of relief slowly creeps over me at the thought that it was indeed a nightmare.

I don’t care if it was my first, or that it somehow matched so close to reality. Maybe that’s what happens when you don’t dream; your very first one is a visceral, horrifying experience.

The reason I desperately want it to be a nightmare isn’t only because of mental damage. It’s the fact that I didn’t fight. The fact that I orgasmed. The fact that I was touching myself to that disgusting act.

Pushing those thoughts away, I try to breathe, even partially, considering that Adrian’s still here and his presence always steals some of my air, if not all.

He gets a Band-Aid and puts it on the small cut in my palm. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“That?”

“The bottle. You should’ve given it to me when I told you to.”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking straight,” I mutter dismissively. But if I thought that would propel him to let it go, I’m far from right.

Adrian’s eyes darken and the air thickens in response to his mood. He towers over me until I have to tilt my head back to look at him as he repeats slowly, “You weren’t thinking.”

“I…wasn’t.”

“You’ll think before you act from now on.”

“Okay.”

“Not okay. Say it.”

“I will think.” Jeez. What is wrong with him?

“Go shower and change. We have breakfast in half an hour.”

I didn’t even realize it was morning yet since the curtains in the bedroom are closed. “Okay.”

He narrows his eyes. “Drop that word.”

“Why?”

“And stop talking back to me.”

“I’m merely asking why.”

“Because it doesn’t suit you.”

“More like it doesn’t suit your wife,” I mumble.

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” I blurt at the severity in his tone. This man is really not to be messed around with.

Using the towel, he picks up the pieces of broken ceramic, one by one, but instead of tossing them in the trash, he takes them with him on his way out.

I try to look away, but I’m unable to stop staring at his firm ass and long legs. I’ve never witnessed such a perfect physique before, but it’s not only about that. It’s the way he carries himself and the sheer confidence he exudes, even while naked.

It’s a vulnerable position for most people, but Adrian’s acting as if he’s dressed in a sharp suit. It takes a lot of mental discipline to give off such a vibe.

That’s both fascinating and dangerous.

A man like Adrian should really come with a hazard warning, and not just because of his tenacious self-assurance, but because of all of him.

It takes me a few seconds to shake my head and stop ogling him.

As soon as he leaves, I lock the bathroom door before I strip and take a quick shower. I trust no one, and Adrian is at the top of that list.

When I’m finished, I wrap myself in a robe, cover my hair with a towel, then crack the bathroom door open. After I make sure no one is there, I step into the bedroom and notice another door in the corner that leads to a walk-in closet.

I carefully go inside and startle when an automatic white light flicks on. I stop to study endless rows of clothes, accessories, and shoes. On the left, there are countless suits and shirts, mostly black, gray, and dark blue.

Adrian clearly doesn’t prefer flashy clothes, and that’s understandable. He’s striking enough without them, and these types of colors suit his mysterious character.

On the right, the colors are lighter, more varied, but they’re…boring. Just like the dress I wore yesterday, most of what I assume is Lia’s wardrobe is composed of suit skirts in muted colors like beige, caramel, and gray. Her dresses are straight and knee-length. There’s not a single pair of jeans, a denim jacket, or anything that doesn’t look like it’s mimicking the Queen of England’s style.

It feels weird to rummage through a dead woman’s clothes, but I do so anyway because I really don’t want to wear another dress and killer heels today.

After what seems like hours of searching at the back of the closet, I find cute jean shorts and a pink tank top that reads ‘Special.’ Although I would usually go for the heaviest, warmest clothes with the weather, Adrian’s house is hot, so I can wear these inside. I put them on and use a pink scarf as a belt for the shorts since they’re a bit bigger. Lia and I don’t perfectly match in size, after all.

One less item on the creepy scale.

I don’t find any sneakers, so I settle on pink flats. I use a scarf that’s similar to my belt to gather my hair into a long ponytail.

Staring in the mirror, I smile, satisfied with the result. However, my smile soon disappears when I recall that when I was pregnant, I bought matching mother-daughter clothes like these so we could dress alike.

I never got the chance to.

Refusing to get caught up in memories of her, I step out of the room and stare to my left, then my right, trying to determine where the dining room is located. I assume it’s downstairs and take the steps unhurriedly. Or more like, warily.

Even in daylight, this place still gives me the chills. Actually, scratch that. It doesn’t only give me the chills, they keep mounting with every minute I spend within these walls.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs, wondering where to go from here.

“Mrs. Volkov?”

At first, I don’t recognize the name, but then I turn around, realizing it’s Lia’s and, therefore, mine.

A middle-aged woman, who appears to be in her late fifties, stares at me with a blank expression. She’s tall, way taller than me. Her blonde hair with white streaks is gathered into a tight bun and she has a square face that, coupled with her rigid expression, makes her look like that high school teacher we all had, whose class no one dared to breathe in.

She gives me a once-over as if I’m not respecting the school’s dress code.

“Yes?” I don’t sound convincing, but I’m also not sure how to act. If I ask her where the dining room is, won’t that immediately cast me as an imposter?

“What are you doing here?” Her accent is Russian, though subtle.

“I’m searching for Adrian.” At least that sounded a bit plausible.

“Follow me.” She turns and strides to the left, not waiting for me to follow.

I have no choice but to do so, so I go after her down a long hall. She opens a set of double doors and motions at me to go inside.

I do, conscious of every footstep I take.

A breath leaves me when I find Adrian sitting with the little boy from yesterday—Jeremy.

I’m pretty sure my relief has to do with the child, not the father. Despite my reaction at seeing Jeremy for the first time, it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with myself and the past that’s still wrapped around my throat like a noose.

Adrian is dressed in black pants and a dark blue shirt. Grim, non-flashy, and so much him. He lifts his head as soon as I come in, but I quickly avert my gaze, not wanting to be trapped in those ashen grays first thing in the morning.

The rigid teacher walks to an empty seat on his left and points at it. “Your breakfast is ready, Mrs. Volkov.”

I hate that name, the fact that I’m an extension of Adrian. That his last name is mine.

But at the mention of the word ‘breakfast,’ I don’t have time to ponder it. When was the last time I had dinner, then breakfast like a normal person?

Probably a week ago when Larry brought us sandwiches. And they didn’t smell as divine as the bacon and eggs on the table. I miss Larry and wish I could take him some of what’s here.

As soon as I sit down, I’m aware of three pairs of eyes watching me like I’m an alien. What? I didn’t even start eating yet, and I was planning to do it slowly, not like the pig I was last night.

I slowly raise my head to find Adrian’s darkening eyes holding me hostage.

“What is it?” I whisper.

“What are you wearing?”

I stare down at myself and realize what they’re all looking at. “Clothes.”

“I know they’re clothes.” He lowers his voice, and I assume it’s because he doesn’t want Jeremy to hear how much of a dick his father is. “But those are not your clothes.”

“Yes, they are. I found them in the closet.” Opting to change the subject, I take a piece of bread and smile at Jeremy, who’s dragging his spoon through the jelly on his plate. “Do you want a sandwich instead?”

I didn’t know what I expected as a response, but a scowl certainly wasn’t it. He glares up at me, hand tightening around his spoon. Aren’t I supposed to be his mother? Maybe I’m his stepmother?

“I’m not talking to you.” He pouts.

“Jeremy,” Adrian scolds.

“She left, Papa! She’ll do it again.” He dangles his little feet down before he hops off his chair. “I’m full.”

And with that, he turns to leave.

“Jeremy!” I call his name, but he’s already running out of the dining room.

I ignore my breakfast and stand up to follow him. I don’t care if he’s not my child, the pain in his face was so raw.

No kid deserves to feel strong emotions like that. I know better than anyone, considering my own childhood.

Adrian clasps a hand around my wrist, keeping me in place. “Don’t follow him.”

“But—”

He tugs on my arm and I gasp when I’m forced to meet his gaze as he says, “You have me to answer to first.”