Ruined Vows

Chapter 1

ONE

ISAAK

“Take a load off, man. You’re not working tonight,” Caleb calls from behind Carnal’s sleek, obsidian bar, his voice threading through the low thrum of bass vibrating the floor beneath my boots.

I don’t respond right away. My eyes stay locked on the club, scanning with the precision of muscle memory. Even here, leaning against the bar instead of holding my usual post by the wall, my skin feels too tight. This angle leaves blind spots. I don’t do blind spots.

From my usual station, I can clock every asshole in the room, every twitch, every shift in posture that might mean trouble. But from this vantage point—leaning at the bar like some relaxed civilian—I can’t see the far side of the club.

It makes my skin itch even though I know there’s no real threat. Not tonight. It’s early, so there’s only a few regulars scattered in the booths. None of the private rooms in the back are occupied.

“Habit,” I finally mutter, eyes still sweeping.

Caleb snorts, drying a glass with an old rag like he’s auditioning for the role of "Bored Bartender #3" in some indie flick. “You’ve got to get a life.”

Marcus laughs beside me, his Coke sweating on the bar, his eyes bloodshot from too many late nights—or maybe just regular life with a toddler at home. “Can’t. Isaak’s allergic to fun.”

“Can’t,” I agree, voice flat. “Taking a new job.”

Caleb’s towel stills mid-swipe. “Right. Domhn mentioned. Figured we couldn’t keep you chained here forever. But bodyguard work? Really?”

“Personal protection officer work,” I correct without thinking, the words sharp, automatic.

Quinn’s sitting in the lounge area, her legs resting on the back of a man who’s on his hands and knees, acting as her footstool. She sips sparkling soda and otherwise ignores the collared man at her feet. Moira’s half-heartedly scene-ing with Big Rick in the corner. Big Rick is a dom who’s more talk than game. He comes here to get laid more than anything else. Just wears his leathers to look the part.

Moira looks bored while lying on her stomach in the sex swing. Big Rick stands behind her, holding her bent legs by her ankles, trying to fuck her like he’s got something to prove, all rhythmic thrusts and sweaty bravado.

Moira looks like she’s mentally filing her taxes. Her eyes catch mine. A flash of something—challenge, maybe—flickers there, but I don’t bite. Not anymore. Sure, Moira and I used to tangle sometimes before or after work. And she’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But wild. And dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with whips and restraints.

I’ve seen the fractures she pretends aren’t there up close. Everyone around here wants to deny it, but that girl is fubar’d.

I don’t need that kind of wreckage in my life. Not anymore.

“Adult babysitting?” Marcus leans in, his voice a low drawl. “Sounds like hell.”

“It pays,” I grunt. “I’m thinking of starting an agency with some buddies.”

Caleb arches a sarcastic brow. “Buddies? You’ve got friends?”

“Yeah. They just don’t live here.”

And even if they did, I’m not the kind of guy people keep around for laughs and late-night heart-to-hearts. I’m good for one thing—protection. And violence, I suppose, if it comes to that.

But this personal protection agency? It’s the first thing that’s made my blood stir in years. Since the sandbox, I’ve been stuck in this endless loop—wake, run, gym, work, fuck, repeat. Like I’m waiting for something to start, but nothing ever does.

When you’re there , all you can think about is getting back home. But when you finally do, home feels like stepping into a weird place where everything’s been taken over by aliens. It’s all the same but different.

And finally you realize, they aren’t the aliens.

You are.

Deep inside. And you don’t know if you’ll truly ever be able to get home again.

“Hey,” Caleb says, snapping me out of it. “You still in there, man?”

I blink, shaking it off. “Yeah.”

But the truth is, I’m not. Not really.

I haven’t been for a while.

So maybe this is it. Maybe this is what starting feels like.

Moira’s sharp squeal slices through the low hum of the club, and my attention snaps to her like a reflex. It’s definitely not Big Rick’s doing—he’s still grinding away, oblivious to the fact that her orgasm’s about as real as his dom credentials.

She untangles herself from the sex swing, slipping off his cock. She lifts her phone, grinning so big and wild, her teeth shine bright under the dim lights.

“Isaak!” she shouts across the room. Her high-pitched voice cuts through the thrum of bass. “They’re here!”

Quinn glances up from her sparkling soda, raising an eyebrow without bothering to lift her foot from the sub kneeling beneath her.

I push to my feet and my shoulders snap back. I can’t help it; my body slides into that familiar posture out of habit. Alert. Controlled. It’s not anxiety, exactly. It’s just that, when you know what I know, there’s a sharp edge to the air. Like the moment right before a fight starts. The shift before impact.

Impact never comes when you’re expecting it. So you learn to always expect it.

Moira’s already bounding toward me, her robe gaping open, tits bouncing as she comes. She doesn’t close her robe until right before she gets to me. Modesty’s a foreign word to Moira. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes.

She grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so reckless. “C’mon, c’mon! I can’t wait for you to meet her!”

I let her drag me forward, her excitement spilling over, infectious in a way I refuse to acknowledge.

When we hit the front hallway, she drops my arm, huffing like I’m slowing her down. Which, technically, I am—but I move deliberately. I don’t rush into anything. Not people. Not rooms. Not trouble. Especially not trouble.

The front lobby is empty, the dim lights casting long shadows across the polished floor. Moira bounces on the balls of her feet, peering out the glass door with the restless energy of someone incapable of stillness. She throws a flirty grin at Kit, the door security guard, who barely reacts. Though I don’t miss the wink he sends her. Another one bites the dust. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes this time.

I plant myself near the wall, feet spaced just right, hands clasped behind my back, thumbs hooked—a stance carved into me from years of training. At ease but never off guard.

The door finally swings open, letting in a slice of cool night air along with Anna, who barely gets two steps inside before Moira launches at her like a missile. They collide with squeals and laughter, the kind of affection that’s both genuine and obnoxious in equal measure.

Domhnall steps in next, his expression softening the moment he sees Anna—a look that would’ve been unthinkable before she came back from Chicago. The man was all sharp edges and bite the whole year she was gone. Now he’s just… I watch the dopey way he grins down at his fiancé. Now he’s just happy. Love’s a hell of a drug, I guess.

Finally, she walks in.

I’ve clocked her before at the club—a flash of red curls, sharp glasses perched on a narrow nose, always watching, never participating. She’s dressed like money, sleek black fabric hugging her body in all the right places. Her posture’s straight and her chin tilts with just enough arrogance to make it look natural.

She shrugs off her jacket without hesitation, glancing around for somewhere to hang it.

And then she hands it to me.

Like I’m the coat check.

For half a second, I just stare at her, her fingers brushing mine as if I’m invisible. Technically, she’s not wrong. I am staff. But it’s the way she does it—like I’m a fixture, part of the scenery, something expected and unremarkable—that grates under my skin.

I’ve met her kind before. Born with silver spoons and gold-plated entitlement. The kind that never has to say please because the world’s already on its knees for them.

Anna notices the awkward beat and rushes over, plucking the coat from my hand with an apologetic smile. “Oh! Sorry. Kira, this is Isaak. Domhnall’s friend. The one we talked about—he might replace your bodyguard.”

Domhnall’s friend. Guess that’s my résumé now.

Kira tilts her head back to look at me. And then further back. She’s small—compact in a way that makes her seem delicate, though I’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“Hi,” she says, her voice softer than I expect, like she’s not used to speaking first. There’s a slight hitch to it, a breathlessness she probably hates revealing.

She extends her hand, perfectly polite, fingers slim and precise like the rest of her. A neat little package of control and curated charm.

I don’t take it.

“A pleasure,” I grunt instead, turning on my heel. “This way. We’ll discuss terms inside.”

I stalk down the hall, footsteps echoing softly against polished floors. I don’t check to see if they’re following—I know they are. People like her always follow when they want something.

Dropping into a leather lounger beside Quinn, I sink into the worn comfort of routine. Quinn’s sub shifts slightly at her feet, and she taps his shoulder with the sharp tip of her heel. “Be still.”

Her eyes flick to me, one brow arching in silent question. I ignore it.

Moira’s the first to round the corner, her energy spilling into the space like a tide. Domhnall follows, all brooding presence and dark intensity, only gentling when he glances back at Anna, who follows him, with Kira trailing close behind.

The moment Kira steps into view, her gaze snaps to mine like we’ve got some invisible thread stretched between us. Our eyes lock for a beat—just long enough for something unspoken to spark—and then she looks away, her jaw tightening like she’s mad at herself for even acknowledging the connection.

I hear Anna whisper, “Just give him a chance,” her voice soft, meant for Kira alone.

They settle into the seats around us. Anna perches on Domhnall’s lap. His hand slides lazily and possessively along her thigh like he can’t help himself. Quinn sips her drink, indifferent as always to the human footstool beneath her.

But Kira… she sits with her spine too straight, her hands too still, and her eyes darting anywhere but me.

Good.

She should know I’m not here to make friends.

I’m here to keep her alive.

Domhn finally drags his gaze from Anna, his expression smoothing into something like professionalism. “So,” he says, voice low and steady, “now that introductions are done, let’s get down to it. Kira, why don’t you explain the situation?”

Kira straightens in her chair, her spine stiff as rebar, perched like she’s afraid the leather cushions might stain her. Her fingers tighten on her knees, knuckles pale against the dark fabric of her dress. “Oh.” Again, her voice is softer than I expect, breathy with a hitch of hesitation. “Well. Um. I need a new bodyguard because my last one?—”

“Personal protection officer,” I interject, mostly because I’m a dick. I can see she’s uncomfortable, but I still want to needle her. I shouldn’t. From the little information Domhn gave me, this would be a good gig.

She jolts slightly, eyes snapping to mine, and for a brief, satisfying second, I catch the flash of annoyance behind the polished veneer. Her jaw clenches, the tiniest muscle ticking near her temple. It’s so wrong—this is supposed to be an interview—but there’s something addictive about poking at her composure and watching the cracks spiderweb beneath the surface.

I hold her gaze, unblinking, letting the silence stretch until it hums between us like a live wire. She looks away first, back to her folded hands, lips pressed thin.

“My last personal protection officer ,” she corrects, her voice tight, “was reporting all my activities to Carol.”

Moira, ever helpful, chirps, “Carol’s her mom.”

Kira nods, swallowing like the word mother is a jagged pill. “Yes. Carol was paying for the protection detail, so she thought that meant she had the right to use him as her personal spy.”

Ah. Mommy issues wrapped in Prada. Figures.

I study her—sleek black dress, meticulous curls, the sharp lines of someone who measures her worth in perfect edges and the correct designer brands. She’s the type who probably thinks control is the same as safety. Spoiler: it’s not.

“And when I talked to Moira about the situation,” Kira continues, her voice smoothing out like she’s found her footing again, “she mentioned that Domhn often hired security for her.”

Moira grins, unapologetically wicked. “Yeah, but I also told her they weren’t very good. I could always distract them. You know…” She winks. “With incentives.”

Domhn sighs like this is familiar ground. “It’s hard to find anyone competent these days. Much less someone you can trust.” His gaze slides to me, steady and certain. “Which is why I thought of you.”

The words land heavier than I expect. I swallow, nodding once. Domhnall’s not the type to throw around trust lightly. We’ve got history—blood, sweat, and secrets. Some things bond men tighter than friendship. Like burying a body together.

“Thanks, brother,” I mutter, the words rough in my throat but honest.

Across from me, Kira inhales sharply, her chest rising just enough to pull my attention. The dress she’s wearing is conservative, but on her, it feels like silken armor. Polished. Pristine. But still fragile.

“Well,” she says, voice crisp as new paper, “Moira and Anna are my best friends. If they trust you…” Her eyes flick to mine, guarded but direct. “Then so will I.”

Will you? I wonder, but I don’t say it.

Moira’s hand lands on my thigh, casual like she’s done it a thousand times. It’s nothing, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Kira’s gaze drop to the contact. Her fingers twitch against her knee before she yanks her attention back up, face blank. Too blank.

“What’s the threat?” I ask, my voice low.

Moira answers before Kira can open her mouth. “A stalker. Some real freaky shit.”

My focus shifts back to Kira. She’s staring at her lap, her fingernails pressing crescent moons into the fabric of her dress. When she finally looks up, her eyes dart past me like she’s afraid of holding the connection too long.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says quickly, and it’s clear she’s trying to convince herself as she says it. “It’s probably just some overzealous student getting out of line. It happens. Guys who study abnormal psychology can be… intense.”

Her attempt at nonchalance is paper-thin. I lean forward slightly, my instincts kicking in. “You changed your locks?”

She stiffens. “Yes.”

“Your number?” Anna chimes in, her voice softer, threaded with concern.

Kira hesitates. “Yes… but the texts and calls haven’t stopped.”

Fuck.

I shift, sitting up straighter, the sharp edge of my focus locking in. “Your house was infiltrated?”

Moira doesn’t wait for her to answer. “Show him the picture.”

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.