11. A Dangerous Vow #2
The makeup brush trembles against my eyelid. Or maybe I’m the one trembling. It’s getting harder to tell the difference.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Lydia says, reaching for my glass.
I pull it away, sloshing gin onto the pristine white carpet.
It’s a miracle it didn’t spill on my dress.
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.” My voice cracks on the last word, betraying the fear I’m trying so desperately to drown.
“When I can walk down that aisle without feeling like I’m marching to my own funeral, then maybe I’ll have had enough. ”
The room falls silent except for the exaggerated sigh from the makeup artist because I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed and the clink of ice in my glass.
My friends share another look—the kind that speaks volumes without saying a word.
But they don’t try to take my drink again, and right now, that’s all that matters.
“Eve.” Lydia’s voice is gentle, too gentle. “Talk to us. What’s really going on?”
I catch my reflection in the mirror again, barely recognizing the woman staring back.
The makeup artist has transformed me into someone elegant, refined.
Someone worthy of being Ezekiel King’s wife.
But underneath all this polish, I’m still just damaged goods.
A woman who couldn’t give her first husband what he wanted most.
“He’s not Ryan,” Olivia says softly, as if reading my thoughts. “Zeke … he’s different.”
“Is he?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Because from where I’m standing, I’m still being forced into something I didn’t choose. Still being told what’s best for me by a man who thinks he knows better.”
The room falls silent.
“But that’s not really it, is it?” Lydia’s question cuts through my defenses like a knife. “You’re scared because a part of you wants this. Wants him. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here today.”
Because she’s right. Under all my protests, all my resistance, there’s a part of me that remembers how it felt when Zeke held me that first time, how he made me feel cherished, how he made me feel things Ryan never did. How safe I felt. How seen.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because wanting something—someone—means opening yourself up to loss. To pain. To the crushing disappointment of discovering you’re not enough. Again.
The gin burns in my empty stomach as tears threaten to ruin Samantha’s careful work. “I can’t …” My voice breaks. “I can’t go through that again. I won’t survive it.”
Lydia wraps her arms around me, and I lean into her embrace, careful not to smudge my makeup on her dress. The familiar scent of her perfume—vanilla and jasmine—brings back memories of late-night conversations and shared tears over bottles of wine.
“You’re stronger than you think,” she whispers. “And we’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Olivia joins our embrace, her slim arms encircling both of us. “She’s right. You’ve got us. And honestly?” She pulls back, fixing me with those knowing eyes. “I’ve seen how Zeke looks at you. That man would move mountains to keep you safe—to make you happy.”
I want to believe her. God, how I want to believe this time will be different. That Zeke won’t look at me with the same disappointment Ryan did when I couldn’t give him children. That he won’t slowly withdraw. That his honor won’t turn to resentment, then contempt.
“What if …” My voice catches. I take another sip of gin to steady it. “What if he changes his mind? What if he realizes I’m not worth all this trouble?”
“Eve.” Olivia’s voice is firm. “That man wants more from you than just to protect you. I believe that from the depths of my soul. Trust in that.”
I stare at myself, barely recognizing the woman staring back. She looks ethereal, otherworldly. Like someone who could stand beside Ezekiel King and not feel out of place. Someone who could be his queen.
But underneath all this careful artistry, I’m still just me. Still broken. Still scared.
And in less than an hour, I’ll be his wife.
The living room turned ceremony room glows with soft light from crystal chandeliers, casting gentle shadows across cream-colored walls.
It’s beautiful in its simplicity—white roses and silver accents, nothing overstated like I’d expected from a man of Zeke’s wealth.
The intimate setting only makes this feel more surreal, more personal than I’m ready for.
I grip Lydia’s arm as we pause in the doorway, my head swimming from too many martinis. My friends managed to get me here, but staying upright is becoming its own challenge. The room spins slightly, and I dig my fingers deeper into Lydia’s flesh.
“Easy,” she whispers, steadying me.
There can’t be more than twenty people gathered.
I recognize a few faces—Olivia sits near the front, next to Sebastian, Zeke’s brother.
Leo bounces excitedly in his chair beside them, looking adorable in his little suit.
My chest tightens at the sight of him, so innocent and happy, completely unaware of the circumstances that brought us here.
The rest must be Zeke’s people. His inner circle. The ones who know what really happens behind the sophisticated facade of Club Velvet Petal. My cop instincts kick in even through the gin haze, cataloging faces, noting positions, watching for threats.
My eyes find Zeke at the front of the room. He cuts an imposing figure in his black suit, every inch the powerful man he is. Our gazes lock, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. He looks … hungry. Possessive. Like he wants to devour me whole.
The look sends a wave of heat through my body and straight to my core. I want to simultaneously rush toward him and run in the opposite direction. He still has the same effect on me he had before, and that scares the shit out of me.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, but Lydia’s grip on my arm is firm.
“Yes, you can,” she says softly. “One foot in front of the other. We’ve got you.”
The room spins as I take one step and then another toward the altar. Lydia’s grip on my arm tightens as the gin threatens to betray me—one false move and I just might face-plant on the floor.
Miraculously, I make it to the altar and the room sways even more. Or maybe I’m the one swaying. Everything feels fuzzy around the edges, like I’m watching it all happen through warped glass. Zeke’s face blurs in and out of focus before me.
A giggle bubbles up from my chest, completely inappropriate for the solemnity of the moment. I try to swallow it back, but it escapes anyway, echoing off the high ceilings. Several heads turn, and I catch Lydia’s worried eyes from where she stands as my maid of honor.
“Are you alright?” Zeke murmurs, his dark eyes studying my face.
Another laugh slips out. “Never better,” I say, too loudly. My words slur. “Just peachy. Getting married. Again. To a near stranger. Who might be a criminal. Totally normal Saturday.”
Someone clears their throat. Probably the officiant, who’s trying to get through the ceremony while I’m wobbling like a drunk sorority girl at last call. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t far from the truth right now.
Zeke’s hand steadies me, his grip firm but gentle on my elbow. The touch sends an unwanted shiver through me. Even three sheets to the wind, my body betrays me, responding to his nearness like it always has.
“Focus, love,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “We’re almost done.”
I snort, earning another round of concerned looks from our small audience. “That’s what you think. We haven’t even started.” The room tilts dangerously, and I grab his arm to stay upright. “Why is everything spinning?”
Olivia leans forward in her seat, her expression a mix of amusement and worry. She catches Lydia’s eye and mouths something I can’t quite make out.
The officiant clears his throat again, louder this time. His voice drones on, but the words blur together, washing over me in waves I can barely comprehend. Something about sacred unions and lifelong commitments. I stifle another giggle. Lifelong. Right.
“Dearly beloved …” The rest fades into a pleasant hum as I sway slightly, grateful for Zeke’s steadying grip on my elbow. The gin has turned everything soft, making this feel less real, more like some bizarre dream I’ll wake up from tomorrow.
I chance a glance at Zeke’s face. His jaw is set, dark eyes intense as he listens to every word with grave attention.
Like this matters. Like any of this is real and not just some elaborate protection scheme.
The contrast between his solemnity and my alcohol-induced levity strikes me as hilarious, and another bubble of laughter escapes before I can stop it.
“The rings, please.” The officiant prompts, and I blink in surprise. Are we at that part already?
Zeke’s hands are warm and steady as he slides the ring onto my finger. It’s gorgeous—platinum with diamonds around the band. His touch lingers, thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.
I fumble with his ring, nearly dropping it. “Oops.” I giggle, earning a sharp look from the officiant. Zeke’s lips twitch, but his eyes remain serious as I manage to get the band onto his finger.
“The vows are simple,” the officiant continues. “Do you, Ezekiel King …”
I watch Zeke’s face as he responds, his “I do” resonating with conviction. When it’s my turn, I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I drank entirely too much, and despite myself, I feel bad about that.
“I do,” I manage, the words slurring. More than one person in our small audience shifts uncomfortably.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
The words barely register through my gin-soaked haze before Zeke’s hands cup my face. His touch is possessive, demanding, and sends electricity racing across my skin. Before I can process what’s happening, his mouth claims mine with devastating intensity.
This isn’t the chaste wedding kiss I expected. This is raw need and desperate hunger. His tongue sweeps past my parted lips, tasting of coffee and something darker, more dangerous. A small sound escapes my throat as he pulls me closer, one hand sliding to grip my hip.
The room spins faster, but now it’s not just the gin. It’s the way he kisses me like a man starved, like he’s been aching for this moment. Like he actually wants me, and dammit, I want him too. My hands fist in his jacket, unsure if I’m trying to push him away or pulling him closer.
I shouldn’t respond. I should fight it to protect myself. But my traitorous body melts against him anyway, remembering all too well how good we were together. How perfectly we fit. How he could set me on fire with just a touch.
Someone wolf-whistles—probably Seb—and a few nervous laughs ripple through our small audience. The sound barely penetrates the fog of sensation. Zeke’s kiss has turned gentler now, but no less possessive. Like he’s marking his territory. Claiming what’s his.
“I now pronounce you husband and—”
The officiant’s words cut off abruptly as the atmosphere in the room shifts. Zeke breaks the kiss, his body tensing as his eyes fix on something behind me. A chill races down my spine, and Zeke goes rigid against me.
Even through my alcoholic haze, I register the change. The air is heavier, charged with an electric tension that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Zeke’s arm tightens around my waist, pulling me against him in an instinctively protective gesture.
I turn my head, following his gaze to the back of the room where a tall figure stands in the doorway, silent and watchful. The stranger’s presence sucks all the oxygen from the room, leaving nothing but cold dread in its wake.
The mood shift in the room sobers me faster than a shot of espresso. Through my gin-hazed vision, Zeke’s expression shifts from tender possessiveness to pure unadulterated hatred. His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
I’ve seen that look before, on the faces of cornered suspects right before they strike. It’s the look of a man calculating odds, weighing options, preparing for violence.
Zeke’s breathing changes, becoming measured and controlled. The hand at my waist trembles—not from fear, but from restraint. Like he’s holding himself back from launching across the room.
“Nicolo,” he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through his chest.
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water. Nicolo Moretti. The head of the New York crime family. The man Olivia had to get permission from to leave her abusive husband. What the hell is he doing at my wedding?
Zeke shifts his stance, pulling me close to his side with his arm tight around my waist. The gesture seems instinctive, protective. But there’s something else in the way he holds himself—a coiled tension that speaks of deep anxiety.
His chest continues to rise and fall with carefully controlled breaths.
When I glance up at his face, the muscle in his jaw is working overtime.
His eyes never leave Nicolo, tracking him like a predator watching a rival enter his territory.
But beneath the aggression, there’s something else in his expression—a flash of genuine worry. My stomach clenches.
Whatever’s happening here, whatever history exists between these men, one thing becomes crystal clear—Zeke is afraid. Not for himself, I realize with startling certainty, but for me.
A deadly smile spreads across Nicolo’s face. “Looks like congratulations are in order, brother.”