A vow of Violence

Isolde Sterling

The champagne tasted like guilt. Expensive, crisp, and bubbling with a sweetness that made me want to retch.

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Shard, blurring the lights of London into a kaleidoscope of gold and misery. Inside, the air was perfumed with orchids and the scent of old money. The elite of the United Kingdom had gathered for the "Event of the Decade"-my engagement party.

"Smile, darling," Harrison Thorne whispered against my ear. His hand rested on the small of my back-possessive, heavy, and entirely unwelcome. "The Prime Minister is looking."

I adjusted the strap of my dress. It was a custom Versace, midnight blue silk that clung to my body like a second skin, cut dangerously low in the back to expose the curve of my spine. It was a weapon of a dress, designed to distract, to seduce, and to proclaim status. My figure was the envy of the room-an hourglass silhouette honed by hours of pilates and sheer genetic luck-but tonight, I felt like cattle being auctioned.

"I am smiling, Harrison," I murmured, my lips painted a deep, blood-red crimson. "I'm radiating joy."

"You look exquisite," he said, his eyes darkening as they swept over the swell of my breasts. "Tonight, we solidify the merger. The Sterling shipping lanes and the Thorne banking empire. We will be untouchable."

Harrison was handsome in a sterile, polished way. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a jawline bought by the best surgeons in Switzerland. He was the Golden Prince of London. And he was the man who had helped murder his own brother five years ago to get here.

I took a sip of champagne to wash away the bile. I knew the truth. Everyone in the inner circle suspected it, but no one spoke of it. Julian Thorne, the dark sheep, the "bastard" heir, had vanished during a yacht trip in the Mediterranean. Presumed drowned.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Harrison's father, Lord Alistair Thorne, tapped a spoon against his crystal glass. The room went silent. "Tonight, we celebrate the future!"

The double doors at the far end of the ballroom groaned.

They didn't just open; they were pushed with a force that rattled the hinges. The silence that followed wasn't polite; it was the silence of a heart stopping.

A man stood in the threshold. He was soaking wet.

He wore a black trench coat that dripped rainwater onto the pristine marble floor. Beneath it, a bespoke charcoal suit strained against broad, powerful shoulders-shoulders far wider than I remembered. His hair was jet black, slicked back by the rain, and a jagged, pale scar ran through his left eyebrow, ruining the perfect symmetry of a face that looked like it had been carved by a cruel god.

He radiated violence. It wasn't the magical aura of fantasy novels; it was the tangible, terrifying pressure of a predator entering a pen of sheep.

Harrison's hand crushed my waist. "Impossible," he hissed.

The man walked forward. His gait was heavy, rhythmic. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of a funeral drum.

He stopped ten feet from the podium. He looked at Lord Alistair, who had turned the color of ash. Then, he looked at Harrison. Finally, his eyes-dark, volatile, burning with a cold blue fire-landed on me.

A shiver, electric and terrifyingly erotic, shot down my spine. My nipples hardened against the silk of my dress, a traitorous reaction to the sheer masculine menace rolling off him.

"Sorry I'm late," Julian Thorne said, his voice a deep baritone that vibrated in the floorboards. He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. "I had to climb out of hell to get here."

The smell of fear was sweeter than the orchids.

I watched the color drain from my brother's face. Harrison. The man who had paid the Colombian cartel to toss me overboard five years ago. He looked good. polished. Soft.

And Isolde...

My gaze drifted to her. Five years ago, she had been a girl of twenty-two, shy and bookish. Now? She was a goddess carved from ice and sin. The midnight blue dress left nothing to the imagination, hugging hips that were wider, softer, more dangerous than before. Her skin glowed under the chandeliers, a creamy contrast to the dark fabric. She looked like a prize. My prize, sold to the highest bidder.

"Julian?" Lord Alistair choked out. "My boy... we thought..."

"You thought I was fish food," I finished, stepping closer.

Two security guards-ex-SAS, by the look of their stance-moved to intercept me. They were the Thorne family's dogs. Highly paid, highly trained martial artists. No superpowers here, just physics and brutality.

"Sir, you need to step back," the first guard grunted, reaching for my shoulder.

I didn't stop walking.

As his hand touched my trench coat, I moved. It wasn't a technique you learned in a dojo. It was a technique you learned in the fighting pits of Macau. I grabbed his wrist, twisted his center of gravity, and drove my elbow into his solar plexus.

Crunch.

The sound of cracking ribs echoed through the silent ballroom. The guard collapsed, wheezing.

The second guard swung a heavy fist. I didn't block. I slipped inside his guard-a slip so fast it blurred-and drove the heel of my palm into his jaw. His head snapped back, eyes rolling into his head. He hit the floor unconscious before the first guard had even finished falling.

Total time: three seconds.

I adjusted my cuffs. "Your security is lacking, Father. You should ask for a refund."

The room erupted into gasps. Women clutched their pearls. Men stepped back, terrified of the violence yet unable to look away. This was the thrill they craved. The savagery hidden beneath their tuxedos.

I walked up the steps to the podium, invading Harrison's personal space. He smelled of fear sweat and expensive cologne.

"Julian," Harrison stammered, trying to regain his composure. "We... we buried an empty casket. We mourned you."

"I bet you cried tears of joy," I whispered, leaning in so only he and Isolde could hear. "Happy engagement, brother."

I turned my gaze to Isolde. Up close, she was devastating. The scent of jasmine and rain clung to her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips parted in shock. I could see the pulse fluttering in her throat.

"Isolde," I said, my voice dropping an octave, rough with five years of unsaid words. "You haven't aged a day. You've just grown... sharper."

"Julian," she breathed. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. She wasn't scared of me. She was intrigued. "You're supposed to be dead."

"I was," I said, reaching out. I ignored Harrison and took her hand. Her skin was warm, electric against my cold fingers. I brought her knuckles to my lips, maintaining eye contact. The heat in her eyes flared. "But death didn't want me. So now, you're stuck with me."

I turned to the crowd, raising my voice.

"I am formally contesting the transfer of the Thorne Estate," I announced. "And as for this engagement... consider it under review."

The ride to the penthouse was silent. The rain hammered the roof of the blacked-out Maybach Julian had "acquired" from a Russian associate earlier that morning.

He wasn't staying at the Thorne Manor. That house was a nest of vipers, and he wasn't ready to sleep with one eye open just yet. He was staying at the Obsidian Tower, a brutalist spike of glass and steel overlooking the Thames.

Julian stripped off his wet coat, tossing it onto the Italian leather sofa. Beneath the suit, his body was a roadmap of violence. Scars-knife wounds, bullet grazes, burn marks-marred the tanned skin of his torso. Muscles coiled like steel cables under his shirt.

He poured a glass of whiskey. No ice.

"Sir," a voice came from the shadows of the hallway.

Kai stepped out. Kai was Julian's shadow. A Korean-British hybrid, lean as a whip, wearing a casual hoodie that hid a dozen concealed blades. He wasn't a servant; he was a brother-in-arms forged in the same hell Julian had escaped.

"Did you plant the bugs?" Julian asked, taking a sip. The whiskey burned, a welcome sensation.

"Every room in the Thorne Manor. Even the bathrooms," Kai said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Harrison is currently vomiting in the master suite. Your father is calling his lawyers."

"And Isolde?"

Kai paused. He walked over to the kitchen island, picking up an apple and tossing it in the air. "She went home alone. Harrison tried to go with her, but she put him in a separate car. She's interesting, that one. Her heartbeat didn't elevate when you broke that guard's ribs. It elevated when you kissed her hand."

Julian swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "She's not the girl I left behind, Kai. She's dangerous."

"She's a distraction," Kai warned. "We are here to dismantle the Syndicate that backs your father. We are here to take the legacy. Women are messy."

"Isolde isn't just a woman. She's the key to the Sterling shipping routes. Without her, Harrison is nothing but a trust fund baby with a drug habit."

Julian walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling, glittering city of London. It was a beast that ate the weak.

"Besides," Julian murmured, the memory of Isolde's scent-jasmine and rain-flooding his senses. He recalled the way the silk dress clung to the curve of her hips, the way her breath hitched when he loomed over her. It wasn't just strategy. It was a hunger that had been gnawing at him for five years.

"I intend to make her mine," Julian said, his reflection in the glass looking like a demon. "Harrison stole my life. I'm going to steal his future wife. And I'm going to make her enjoy every second of the betrayal."

Kai chuckled darkly. "You're a bad man, Boss."

"I know."