Shadows Of Vows

Chapter 5: The Edge of trust

After the conversation with Saint

I didn’t stop walking until I couldn’t hear his voice anymore.

Until the marble floors turned into soft carpet. Until the heavy silence of his presence finally gave way to the softer kind—the kind that didn’t press into your skin like a blade.

I found a door, closed it behind me, and sank to the floor.

Not the bed. Not the chair.

The floor.

Cold. Still. Safe.

My hands were trembling now, for real. No one to pretend for. No audience. No weight of pride on my back.

Just me.

Just everything I couldn’t say back there.

I let my head fall back against the wall and shut my eyes.

And the words came rushing in like waves I’d tried too hard to hold back.

“You were sold. There’s a difference.”

“If I wanted a puppet, I would’ve chosen someone quieter.”

“I’ve been watching you, Emily.”

“You intrigued me.”

“I’m not your father.

God.

Why did that hit so hard?

Why did those words feel like someone had cut the wire wrapped around my throat and let me breathe for the first time?

And why—why the hell did a part of me want to believe him?

I pressed the heel of my hand into my chest like I could stop the ache building there. It wasn’t fear exactly. Not of him.

He hadn’t threatened me.

He hadn’t touched me.

And yet… I’d never felt more seen—or more stripped.

I’ve spent my whole life being watched. Judged. Managed. Taught to behave. To obey.

But not like this.

When Saint looked at me… it wasn’t to assess my value.

It was like he was trying to understand something in me that I barely understood myself.

Like he recognized it.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because I don’t know what that makes us.

Two people who were broken by the people who should’ve protected us?

Two weapons forged in the same fire?

Or something worse.

I curled my knees up to my chest and let my forehead rest there.

I didn’t cry.

I wanted to.

But the tears wouldn’t come.

Grief lives in my body in other ways. Like tight fists. Like locked jaws. Like the burn in the back of my throat.

Saint said I could leave.

That I didn’t have to run.

And he’d let me go.

But the way he said it…

Like he already knew I wouldn’t.

Like some part of him was daring me to stay.

And the worst part?

Some part of me wants to.

Not for safety. Not even for revenge.

But because when he looked at me…

It felt like he’d already decided to burn the whole world down if it meant no one touched me again.

I don’t know what that is.

Protection?

Obsession?

Possession?

Love? No. It’s too early. Too dangerous.

But maybe the seed of something like it. Something raw and unfinished and terrible.

Something that could destroy us both.

I should be angry. Furious.

But all I feel right now is tired. And seen.

And maybe—just maybe—a little less alone.

_____________________________________________________________

Later that night, after everyone left the house

I stepped out of my room slowly, quietly, wrapped in a black cotton shirt I’d found folded neatly at the back of the closet. It smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry. It was too big on me—slid over one shoulder and brushed my thighs.

I told myself it was just a shirt.

That I didn’t wear it because it was his.

But even I knew that was a lie.

The shirt was soft.

And it made me feel safe.

The kitchen lights were dim, just enough to see.

I padded in barefoot, stomach hollow, half-hoping to find something edible that didn’t reek of money or formality.

What I didn’t expect was him.

Saint.

Standing at the stove.

Shirtless.

I stopped so fast I nearly stumbled.

He had his back to me, a glass of water in one hand, the other braced casually on the counter.

And—God help me—he was built like a Greek god.

Not in the loud, gym-rat kind of way. No.

He was sculpted from tension. Power. Discipline. Muscles shaped by violence, not vanity. Broad shoulders. A deep line running down his spine. A collection of scars mapped across his ribs like unfinished stories.

A single tattoo ran down his left side—some kind of Latin script that disappeared beneath the waistband of his joggers.

My heart did something stupid in my chest.

And then he turned.

And saw me.

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t flinch.

They simply dropped, slowly—taking me in.

And when they landed on the shirt I was wearing—his shirt—something shifted in his gaze.

Something dark.

Something possessive.

His jaw clenched, but not with anger.

He didn’t say a word about it.

Didn’t have to.

It was all over his face.

“You’re up,” he said, voice low and worn, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

“I was hungry,” I murmured, fighting the heat climbing my neck. “Didn’t realize anyone was still awake.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Didn’t realize you’d borrowed my shirt.”

I swallowed hard. “It was the first thing I saw.”

A beat of silence passed.

“You can keep it,” he said, turning back to the oven like it meant nothing.

But his voice was tighter now. Controlled. Careful.

I watched the way his shoulder blades moved beneath his skin as he opened the oven and pulled out a plate, steam rising in a soft cloud.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come out,” he added, setting it down on the island. “But I figured hunger would eventually win.”

“You were right,” I said, stepping closer.

The food smelled amazing—chicken, roasted vegetables, something buttery and spiced beneath it all.

“Did you make this?”

He nodded. “Cooking calms my hands.”

That surprised me.

I didn’t picture Saint needing to be calmed. He always looked like the storm that made others break.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed now, watching me with an unreadable look.

“Your parents,” I said between bites, needing to break the tension. “Do they live here too?”

“They’re away on business,” he said. “You’ll meet them when they get back. My mother will like you.”

I blinked. “You sound sure of that.”

“I am.”

That threw me off balance.

I looked down at the food, stabbing at a piece of carrot that didn’t deserve my anxiety. “Do they… know how this happened? That I was—”

“Sold?” he finished, not cruelly. Just directly.

I nodded.

His voice softened. “They don’t know all of it. But they know enough.”

I met his eyes again. “Are they like you?”

Something passed through him. Maybe regret. Maybe warning.

“No,” he said finally. “Not even close.”

That sat heavily in the air between us.

I looked at him again—really looked. Shirtless. Scars. Tension vibrating through every inch of him like he was always holding something back.

And God help me, I still thought he was the most beautiful, dangerous thing I’d ever seen.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly.

I looked away. “So are you.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, “You look good in my shirt.”

I didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet. So I moved on.

“I wanted to ask…” I said, setting down my fork. “Can I go to school?”

His brow lifted slightly. “School?”

“I had a scholarship. I was supposed to start college this fall. It was the only thing I wanted that felt mine.”

He studied me like he was measuring how badly I needed it.

Then: “You’ll go. But you’ll have security. Non-negotiable.”

I nodded, relief loosening something in my chest.

“And, Emily,” he added, tone a little sharper now. “No sneaking. No running. You want something—you come to me.”

“I did,” I said softly.

He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Then I’ll give it.”

That simple.

Like he was done drawing lines between what was his and what was mine.

But the way he was looking at me now…

Like I was a question he didn’t know how to answer.

Like I was a flame he couldn’t decide whether to guard or touch.

The room was quiet again. The tension thick—but no longer suffocating.

“You should eat,” he said finally, pushing off the counter and walking past me.

His arm brushed mine lightly.

A spark.

Unintentional.

Or maybe not.

He disappeared down the hall without another word, bare back disappearing into the dark.

And I stood there, pulse racing, in a kitchen full of heat—

Wondering if I’d just witnessed the beginning of something…

Or the warning of it.