A vow of Violence

CHAPTER 8:

The Sterling Gallery in Mayfair was my kingdom. Here, I wasn't a pawn. I was the Queen.

I was supervising the installation of a new avant-garde exhibit-massive, twisted metal sculptures that looked like frozen explosions. It fit my mood.

"Isolde."

The voice came from the entrance. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. My body reacted before my brain did. My pulse spiked, heat flushing through my veins.

Julian.

I turned slowly. He was leaning against a pristine white wall, looking like a dark stain on my perfect canvas. He wore a navy suit that fit him criminally well. His eyes were scanning me, undressing me.

I was wearing a simple cream cashmere sweater and a pencil skirt, my hair in a messy bun. I wasn't dressed for battle, but I raised my chin anyway.

"You're making a habit of invading my personal space, Julian."

"I like your space," he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward me. He moved like a panther-silent, predatory. "It smells like you."

"What do you want?"

"I just came from a board meeting. I'm the new CEO of Thorne Corp."

I blinked. "That's impossible. Alistair would never..."

"Alistair didn't have a choice. I held a gun to the company's head." He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to crane my neck to look at him. He was so tall. So overwhelming.

"And there's a change in the merger agreement," he said softly.

My stomach dropped. "What change?"

"Harrison is out. I'm taking his place."

"In the company?"

"In the marriage."

The world spun. I took a step back, bumping into a sculpture. "You think you can just trade me? Like a... like a horse?"

"No," Julian said. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. The touch was electric, possessive. "I'm not trading you, Isolde. I'm claiming you."

"I'm not a prize to be claimed!" I hissed, though I didn't pull away. I couldn't. His touch was hypnotic.

"Aren't you?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear. "You were going to marry a man you loathed for the sake of your family's shipping lanes. You sold yourself long ago, sweetheart. I'm just upgrading the buyer."

Fury and arousal warred inside me. He was arrogant. Cruel.

"I hate you," I whispered, my voice trembling.

"Good," he murmured, his hand sliding from my neck down to my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer masculine power. "Hate is passion. Hate is fire. I can work with hate."

He looked at my lips. For a second, I thought he would kiss me right there, in front of the gallery staff. I wanted him to. God help me, I wanted him to ruin me.

Instead, he pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Pick a dress for Friday," he said, turning to leave. "We have a wedding to plan."

I stood there, trembling, watching him walk away. I should run. I should flee the country. But as I watched his broad back, a terrifying realization settled in my heart.

I didn't want to run. I wanted to see what he would do next.