Twisted Vows

Threads of Smoke

The morning after Ava's storm-like kiss and cold-eyed promise, the world outside the penthouse felt too quiet. Too still.

She rose before the sun, slipping from the warmth of Kian’s arms without waking him. The city stretched like a tired beast beyond the glass walls, and Ava stood barefoot, sipping black coffee, watching it breathe.

She didn’t know exactly what Selene wanted, or why Dante Leone’s name was creeping into their lives again—but she did know one thing: whatever firestorm came their way, she wouldn’t face it from the sidelines.

Kian emerged a few minutes later, shirtless, eyes heavy with sleep but alert as ever. He always looked like that—like he could go from half-asleep to assassin in under a breath.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asked, voice gravel and velvet.

“Too many ghosts in this house.”

He nodded, walking up behind her. His arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. She didn't lean into him. Not yet.

"You kissed me like you were trying to erase something," he said quietly.

"I was." She took another sip. "She looked at you like you were still hers."

He sighed. "She always looks at things like she owns them. Doesn’t mean she does."

"Except now she’s trying to remind me she once did."

Kian turned her to face him. "Do you trust me?"

She stared into his eyes. "I trust that you won’t let her win. That’s enough for now."

Later in the afternoon, the mood shifted.

Ava had changed into a thigh-slit silk dress the color of dried rose petals, and her hair was twisted up loosely, some strands falling in waves around her collarbones. Kian was still on a call—one of his usual cold, clipped business negotiations. But even from the hallway, Ava could hear the edge in his voice soften slightly when he glanced toward her and met her eyes.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there… watching.

Then she disappeared into the guest bedroom.

By the time Kian ended the call, she was waiting in the living room with an open bottle of whiskey and two glasses—neat. No ice.

“What's the occasion?” he asked, arching a brow.

“We survived a day without any explosions. Seemed worth celebrating.”

He walked toward her, but she held up a hand.

“Not yet. Sit.”

He hesitated, then did as she asked, dropping onto the leather sofa. She poured the drinks slowly, deliberately, the amber liquid catching the light like honey laced with danger.

She handed him a glass and then circled the room, almost like she was inspecting him. Not touching. Just… circling.

“You know what I hate, Kian?” she said, sipping. “The way people think women break down when they’re jealous. Cry. Scream. Make drama.”

Kian blinked. “Are you jealous?”

She leaned in, lips a breath from his ear. “No. I’m calculating.”

And then, without warning, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back—firm, not cruel. Her lips crushed against his, hungry and hot with the fury she didn’t speak.

The kiss was war.

Kian dropped his glass to the rug and yanked her into his lap, hands gripping her thighs, but she didn’t let go of his hair. She rode the kiss like a dare, biting his bottom lip before pulling back just enough to whisper:

“Don’t give her your time again.”

Kian’s breath was ragged, eyes wild. “She kissed my cheek in a room full of cameras. You think I wanted that?”

“No. But I know she did.”

She kissed him again—slower this time, as if reclaiming what was already hers. Then she pulled away entirely and stood.

“That’s all. You’re forgiven… mostly. Now go finish cooking.”

That evening, the penthouse was filled with music—old jazz, rich and sultry—and the scent of something complex.

Ava stepped out of the bedroom, barefoot now, her earlier dress swapped for a satin black robe that cinched at the waist. She caught him plating the dishes at the kitchen counter—steak seared perfectly, buttery and bleeding, and a spicy shrimp risotto rich with saffron and citrus.

“What is this?” she asked, amused.

Kian was in rolled sleeves again, his forearms dusted with flour and pepper. Not the first time he’d cooked for her—but the effort tonight? It was different.

“This?” he said, motioning toward the plates. “This is me making sure we don’t go to bed mad. And also me proving that yes, I remember how you like it. Hot and unapologetic.”

Her lips curved. “Talking about food or s*x?”

“Whichever gets me forgiven faster.”

They ate on the terrace, the city sprawling like an open secret beneath them.

Wine. Laughter. Lingering stares.

But even between sips and smiles, tension still danced like a third guest at the table.

"Why didn’t you tell me more about Dante?" Ava asked softly, fork resting on her plate.

Kian didn’t flinch. "Because the more you know, the more dangerous it becomes. And if anything ever happened to you because of me—"

"I’m already in it, Kian. Don’t keep me safe by keeping me blind."

He stared at her, jaw tight, and nodded.

Later, as the plates were cleared and the music slowed, Ava stood behind him as he watched the skyline.

She wrapped her arms around his waist.

"You know what I hate?" she whispered against his neck.

"What’s that?"

"The idea of being some man’s weakness."

He turned. "You’re not. You’re my weapon."

Her lips curved. "Good. Because I plan to be lethal."

Then, without another word, she tugged his collar down and bit his neck—not gentle, not soft. A mark. A warning. A promise.

Kian laughed, low and dark. "Are we starting something?"

"No," she whispered. "We’re continuing what they’re too afraid to finish."

They didn’t make love that night in the usual frenzy.

This time, Ava blindfolded him.

This time, she told him to lie back.

And Kian let her.

She trailed her fingertips down his chest, every stroke slow, deliberate, as if she were painting her name onto him with touch alone. His skin warmed under her hands, each muscle twitching beneath her command. She straddled him with grace and authority, the silk of her robe brushing against his skin like temptation.

She leaned closer, her breath ghosting over his temple as she slid the silk blindfold over his eyes. It wasn’t just to heighten his senses—it was to make him surrender.

“Do you trust me?” she whispered, her lips brushing the edge of his ear.

“Always.”

“Then let go.”

And he did.

Ava took a moment to admire him like this—laid back, powerful and helpless all at once. His body was a canvas of sin and story. Across his ribs, a line of calligraphy curved like a secret prayer—Latin, inked in jagged black. Over his left pec, an intricate compass wrapped in roses. And lower, on the sharp edge of his abdomen, a small serpent coiled around a dagger. Dangerous. Beautiful. Hidden meanings waiting to be unraveled.

She traced the ink of each tattoo with the tip of her tongue—first slow, then with purpose. Her tongue dragged over the compass rose, pausing at its center where his heartbeat pounded strongest. She let her lips linger there, then kissed downward, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth.

Her mouth found his collarbone, and she bit—hard enough to mark, soft enough to tease. Kian let out a deep, guttural groan, fists clenching the sheets.

“Still breathing?” she asked, lips brushing his chest.

“Barely.”

“Good.”

Her tongue slid down to his n****e, circling, flicking, tasting. He gasped when she closed her mouth around it and sucked—firm, possessive. Then the other. His whole body jerked beneath her, a tremor of need and surrender.

She licked a slow, deliberate line down the center of his abs, following the ridges like a path she’d walked before but never claimed. Each inch she conquered, he exhaled like he was being undone molecule by molecule.

His muscles tightened. His breath hitched.

“Ava…” he rasped, voice strained and reverent.

She placed her palm flat on his chest, pinning him down—not with strength, but with the sheer dominance in her stare. Her other hand drifted lower, fingers dancing along the edge of his waistband with maddening restraint.

She leaned forward, her voice a velvet threat against his ear. “Beg.”

Kian’s jaw flexed. His pride fought it. But his body surrendered.

“Please.”

Her smile was slow. Wicked. Triumphant.

Then she rewarded him.

Every second after that was control disguised as chaos. Ava didn’t move like a lover—she moved like a ruler taking what was hers. She mapped him with lips and tongue, made him arch with need and curse with desperation. She devoured his reactions like wine, and each sound he made poured fuel on her fire.

She took her time, used every weapon in her arsenal—her voice, her mouth, her touch—to show him what power looked like in silk.

And when he was shaking, blindfolded and undone, she finally lowered herself down to whisper, “You’re mine now, Kian Thorne.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t have to.

Because in that moment, in the dark with her hand pressed to his chest and her name etched into his skin like flame, he belonged to her completely.

And it wasn’t surrender.

It was devotion.