Convenient Vows (Lethal Kings #4)

1. Chapter 1

P rologue

Xiomara

Seventeen-year-old Mara

My heart slams against my ribcage as bullets slice through the air, each crack echoing louder than the last.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

Hands dig into my arms as the masked men shove me into the back seat of the car, the door slamming shut behind me with a sickening finality. My scream rips free, raw and panicked, my heels kicking out wildly as I claw at the window, my fingernails scraping against the glass.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This was supposed to be a party.

Camila’s voice floats back in my mind, teasing and persuasive. “Come on, Mara, just this once. We’ll sneak past your security, no one will know. Don’t you want to feel like a normal girl for once?”

And I truly did. With all of my heart, I did.

The thrill of slipping past the guards, of stepping into the club’s smoky haze, and taking that first illicit sip of vodka while the bass thumped against the walls — it was dizzying. I felt bold, electrified, as if I were finally living.

Now, I feel like I’m dying.

Suddenly, the door flies open with a wrenching metallic screech, and the man closest to me jerks, surprise registering in his eyes, the only visible part of his masked face.

He doesn’t get the chance to say a word before a large, gloved hand grips his collar and yanks him clean out of the car.

His body hits the ground with a thud, followed by a brutal crunch as a fist pummels him into the dirt.

I peer through the glass to see my rescuer, and that is when I see him.

Zasha.

I’ve seen him a total of two times before now, always from a distance—just a shadow that interacts with my father only when necessary. He has always seemed silent, dangerous, and off-limits.

Now, he’s here, his dark hair soaked by rain, his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, a Glock in his hand as he moves like a predator among prey. His eyes, cold and calculating, snap to me for just a second — and then the world explodes into chaos.

Bullets rip through the air.

I scream, my hands flying to my head, ducking instinctively, but I’m yanked again, this time from the car, and shoved hard onto the cold, wet ground. My knees scrape against the pavement, the shock jarring up my spine.

Zasha’s body slams down over mine, heavy, unyielding, his arm curling around my waist, pulling me flush to his chest. His breath is hot and fast at my ear, and all I can hear is the sharp, mechanical bark of his gun as he fires shot after shot.

I can feel the thump of his heart against my back — steady, controlled — a stark contrast to the frantic pounding of mine.

Another volley of bullets. Another grunt. Another body hits the ground somewhere to the left.

My hands tremble as I press them flat against the pavement, tears mingling with the rain on my face. I don’t dare lift my head. I don’t dare breathe too loudly. Then, suddenly, there is silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels safe—but rather the kind that feels as if the air has been sucked out of the world.

Slowly, I turn my head, my cheek scraping against the damp asphalt.

Zasha is crouched beside me, one knee on the ground, his Glock still raised, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His eyes flicker over the scene — three bodies, sprawled and unmoving, blood pooling beneath them.

And then, those cold, steel-gray eyes drop to me.

His hand extends.

“Up.” His voice is low, sharp, cutting through the haze in my mind.

My throat tightens. I can’t move. My body is trembling so violently that I think my legs will give out if I try to stand.

Without warning, he reaches down and hauls me to my feet, one arm anchoring around my waist, the other pressing the gun to his side.

“Stay close,” he growls, his voice rumbling through me. “Don’t make a sound.”

The rain is still falling, but I barely feel it. My mind is frozen, my body moving only because his hands force it to.

I grip his shirt, my fingers clutching the fabric as we move through the darkness. Every step feels like it takes an eternity.

And somewhere, through the fog in my mind, a strange thought breaks through —I’ve never been this close to a man before. Never been this aware of how big they are, how strong. Never realized just how different men are from girls like me.

Not until now.

They say the worst mistakes are the ones you plan — and tonight, I thought I’d planned mine to perfection.

My friends helped me with this plan. We were so thrilled with what we came up with. It was supposed to be my little rebellion. My rite of passage into adulthood.

Now, I’m shivering in the passenger seat of a sleek black car, drenched and scraped up, my chest still tight with panic.

Zasha slams the door shut after tossing me inside like a ragdoll and stalks around to the driver’s side.

He slides in, starts the engine with a violent twist of the key, and the car roars to life.

Without a word, he peels away from the bloodstained street, tires screeching as we tear into the night.

The car ride is silent except for the sharp, broken sound of my own breathing.

I’m shaking so badly that my teeth chatter. My hands tremble in my lap, while my soaked dress clings uncomfortably to my skin. I attempt to pull the seatbelt over my chest, but my fingers feel clumsy and useless.

Across from me, Zasha’s face is carved from stone.

His jaw is clenched tightly, muscles twitching, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. His eyes dart constantly to the rearview mirror, sharp and cold, scanning the darkness for threats.

I steal a glance at him through my lashes, heart hammering so hard it drowns out the noise of the engine.

This man-this shadow I’ve seen only twice before—just killed three men without breaking a sweat.

He moved like a storm, fierce and untouchable, cutting them down with terrifying precision.

It should terrify me.

Yet, all I can think about is how he looked hunched over me, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising and falling like a caged animal.

I curl my fingers tighter in my lap, heat rising uncomfortably in my chest. I open my mouth, trying to speak, but my voice cracks. “I—”

“Save it for your father.” His voice slices through the air, low, sharp, and final.

My throat closes up.

Tears prick my eyes, hot and sudden, but I refuse to let them fall. I stare down at my knees, biting the inside of my cheek, trying to keep myself together.

Outside the window, the city blurs past in streaks of light and shadow. We speed through intersections, weave through empty streets, the tires hissing over rain-slick asphalt.

The longer we drive, the colder the car feels, and the closer I get to my house, where I have to face my father’s wrath.

Zasha doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

And I realize, with a sinking feeling, that this man—the one who saved my life tonight—isn’t here to comfort me. I’m nothing more than a duty to him, a duty that ends once he delivers me to my father.

My stomach twists with a sickening dread, and I sink deeper into my seat. I thought I could pull off one small, reckless act and slip back before anyone noticed. I believed I could taste freedom just once, without getting caught.

But now, sitting here in this car beside a man whose world is made of violence and cold, sharp rules, I understand how wrong I was.

And how far out of my depth I’ve fallen.

Zasha reaches for his phone and calls my father. His voice is clipped as he speaks into his phone, one hand gripping the wheel while the other holds the device to his ear. He gives him a brief summary of what just happened and ends the explanation with, “We’re on our way. She’s fine.”

There is a pause.

I can’t hear what my father is saying on the other end, but I don’t need to — I can sense it through the phone, and that feeling makes me flinch even from here.

Zasha doesn’t flinch.

“Understood.” His jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening again on the steering wheel.

I squeeze my eyes shut and sink lower in the seat, wishing — desperately — that the ground would just open up and swallow me before we reach the house. Before I have to face him.

No such luck.

The gates of the Delgado estate swing open as we race up the long driveway, the mansion looming ahead, its stone walls dark against the stormy sky. Lights blaze at the entrance, with figures waiting at the top of the steps.

Zasha slams the car to a stop, flinging his door open with one smooth motion. He yanks mine open a moment later, reaching in to pull me out without a word. My knees wobble as my feet hit the ground, and his hand clamps down hard around my arm to steady me.

I almost hide behind my rescuer's broad back when I see my father, Thiago Delgado, storm out of the front doors like a force of nature, his suit jacket flaring, his face etched with fury and — beneath it — something that nearly resembles fear.

“Mara.” His voice is a whipcrack, slicing through the air. “What the hell were you thinking—”

Zasha’s cold voice cuts in, smooth and matter-of-fact. “Viktor had me on surveillance duty. We suspected something was going down at that club tonight. I was surprised to see your daughter and her friend arrive.”

My father’s eyes swing to Zasha, his jaw working, his fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out at him, too — but Zasha stands like a wall, calm and steady, not even looking at me, his gaze fixed on my raging father.

“Mara.” My father’s voice snaps my attention back, sharp and unforgiving. “Inside. We’ll talk later.”

I nod, swallowing hard, my throat dry. I take a shaky step toward the house, glancing once — just once — over my shoulder.

But Zasha’s already moving, striding back to the car, his broad shoulders tense, his head held high.

He doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t say goodbye.