His Dark Vow

Chapter Seven

The morning sun spilled into the villa, painting golden streaks across the marble floors. Adaora sat at the long dining table, untouched food in front of her — eggs, fresh fruit, bread still steaming. Yet every bite tasted like ash in her mouth.

She wasn’t hungry. She was trapped.

Leonardo entered, crisp in a navy suit, his presence filling the room before he even spoke. Adaora felt his gaze on her instantly, as if he could see through her skin to the turmoil beneath.

“You didn’t eat,” he observed, sitting at the head of the table.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll need your strength.” He poured himself coffee, movements precise, unhurried. “There’s much to learn.”

Adaora’s chest tightened. “Learn? What exactly do you expect from me?”

Leonardo sipped, his gray eyes steady on hers over the rim of the cup. “To stand beside me without flinching. To smile when you’d rather scream. To make them believe you belong in this world.”

Her fists clenched in her lap. “And if I don’t want to belong?”

He set the cup down with a soft clink. “Then you die. Quickly, if my enemies find you. Slowly, if you insist on testing my patience.”

Adaora’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “You can cage me, Leonardo, but you’ll never have me.”

His lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile. “We’ll see.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence, thick with tension neither of them broke.

Later that afternoon, Adaora wandered into the garden, desperate for air. The villa grounds stretched wide, walled by stone and guarded at every corner. Freedom was a mirage — she could see it, smell it, but not touch it.

She bent over a rose bush, fingers brushing the blood-red petals. The thorns pricked her skin, drawing a bead of crimson.

“Careful.”

She spun, startled. Leonardo stood behind her, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the tiny wound.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, hiding her hand.

He stepped closer, catching her wrist with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the smear of blood, his touch almost tender. Almost.

“You’re fragile,” he said softly. “But fragile things can still cut deep, can’t they?”

Her breath caught at the warmth of his skin against hers. The intimacy of the moment burned hotter than it should have.

Adaora pulled away. “Stop pretending you care.”

Something flickered in his eyes — irritation, amusement, maybe even hurt. Then it vanished, replaced by steel.

“You’ll learn soon enough,” he murmured. “In my world, caring is weakness. But keeping you alive…” He leaned closer, his voice brushing her ear. “…that’s power.”

Adaora’s heart raced, traitorously aware of how close he stood, of the heat rolling off him. She hated him. She feared him. But worst of all, a part of her was beginning to wonder what it would mean if she didn’t resist.