Merciless Vows by Faith Summers

5

Aria

Iwas told my accident happened at our summer home in Lake Tahoe.

We used to own one of the luxury lake houses the place is known for.

There was a fire, and Mom couldn’t get out. I must have tried to help her and fell from the second floor when the roof caved in. Then a beam from the ceiling fell on my head.

That was how it all happened—how I lost my memories.

That’s how I became damaged.

When the emergency services got to us, they found me first, but it was too late for my mother.

I was in a coma for her funeral.

It was Dad who told me what happened. After that, we spoke about it one time only.

Outside of that time, he hasn’t talked about Mom, and when anyone mentions her, there’s a sadness in his eyes that shows his loss.

I don’t remember her.

The medical term for my condition is retrograde amnesia.

I was told the damage I suffered to my brain could result in permanent memory loss of my past.

Just like that, everything could be gone forever.

I remember when the doctor said the word could.

That one little word gave me hope, and I worked hard to do everything to get my memories back, but to no avail.

Up until last night, I thought that could was never going to be.

What I don’t know is why the fuck I remember Lucca when I can’t even remember my own mother?

Why in the hell do I remember him? A dangerous man who now owns me.

I know I could have died the same way Mom did, so I’m luckyjust tobe damaged.

I’m not sure, though, if death wouldn’t have been better than walking around in someone else’s body and suffering for the sins of a father I’m supposed to love but can’t remember.

I lean against the wall and gaze out the window at the cascade of roses in the endless garden before me. I’ve never seen so many roses in my life and never so perfectly manicured. They all blend into the scene like a painting.

It should be beautiful. Except there’s a macabre feel to the scenic view that reminds me too much of blood.

The blood I saw today from my father’s bodyguard, and … something else.

Something sinister that’s locked and lost in my mind.

Even though I freaked out and froze up, the blood and death felt familiar to me, too, just like my father’s cruelty.

The same way I’ve swapped between sitting on the floor and standing by the window since this morning, the same way I’ve gone about thinking about everything.

Everything, from the way my father behaved and how he hit me to the situation I’m in because of him.

All those elements have rolled into one big mass of turmoil in my mind that I can’t pick apart. What overpowers all those elements, however, is Lucca.

I won’t hurt you. Come here to me.

I keep hearing those words in my mind, and as I do, I try to think about why he said them. I know I was hurt, but what hurt me?

Why did he need to save me?

I didn’t tell Dad that part. I froze up from everything else I was being told. It wouldn’t have helped my case one way or the other. This plan seems to have been constructed in a way to tie my father down.

Dad called Lucca scum.

This isn’t the type of house scum would live in. It’s a manor house. I haven’t seen all of it yet, but I can tell the grounds are vast and the interior the same. It screams of wealth.

More importantly, how does Dad know Lucca?

Or men like him.

There were so many guns in this house today. Apart from Dad and me, everyone else was armed.

They were armed like gangsters. Like mobsters. Lucca is Russian and acts like a gangster. That is the kind of man who demands a woman’s hand in marriage.

And now he owns my life.

I don’t know the details surrounding my father’s legal guardianship. I didn’t allow it to concern me because I was so focused on getting better. And Dad didn’t talk about it.

Sienna is the one person in my circle who kept me in touch with reality, and with her help, I passed the entrance exams to go back to Berklee in the fall. I wasn’t going to study music. It was to do business and management side of music.

Neither of which I’m interested in, but it would have been a route to freedom.

Being at Berklee in Boston doing a degree I had no interest in would beat living with my father.

God, I wonder if Sienna knows what’s happened to me. Would Dad have told her? She’s supposed to be coming to meet me later for dinner.

I don’t have my purse with my phone. I’m sure there would have been lots of messages from her already.

She messaged me before I went to the club. I was so worked up that I didn’t get back to her because I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Look at me now.

A little robin flies by the window, and I straighten up. A tear drifts down my cheek, surprising me. I didn’t even know I was crying again.

I dab at my eyes and wince at the pain from the bruise that formed from where Dad hit me. I still can’t believe he did that. After Lucca left, a young maid came up with an ice pack I used to get the swelling down. It still hurts like a bitch, though.

I move away from the window and go into the en suite bathroom to my left that I’ve been in a few times. The first time was to clean the blood off and wash my face.

I grab a piece of tissue, dab my eyes, and walk back out to the room, glancing at the wardrobe with men’s clothes hanging inside it. I checked it earlier out of curiosity because I wanted to see if this is his room.

Seeing the clothes made me ninety percent certain it must be. There’s no point hoping for that ten percent.

Hoping hasn’t helped me so far. So why do it now?

When I recall how Lucca said he planned to fuck me, I fear what might happen when the sun goes down, and it will officially be later.

If that’s what he plans to do to me, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I haven’t been with anybody that way since my accident.

A few months ago, I foolishly got myself checked to see if I was still a virgin. It was the least of my worries, but I wanted to know what my life was like before losing my memories. A thing like knowing if I’d had sex before was important to me.

When I was told I wasn’t a virgin, I was strangely upset, and I don’t know why. I’m twenty-four, after all. Many people would have lost theirs by then.

The door handle turns, then clicks open, snapping me out of my thoughts. I tense up, waiting for Lucca to come in.

It’s not him who comes in, though. It’s an elderly lady with her lily-white hair pulled back into a neat bun. Although she must be at least in her mid to late seventies, she carries herself with an elegance that catches my attention.

She’s wearing a knitted cardigan over a black dress that flows about her legs with the same grace as the rest of her.

She reminds me of one of the classic Hollywood actresses. Someone like Elizabeth Taylor or Vivien Leigh.

In her hands is a tray with an assortment of sandwiches and a jug of lemonade with a freshly cut lemon on the side.

“Hello, I’m Marylin,” the woman says with a hint of a Russian accent that sounds similar to Lucca’s. “I take care of the house.”

She offers a smile and seems nice, so it’s best I say very little as I really don’t want to be rude.

“Hello,” I rasp out.

“Mr. Dyshekov has asked me to check on you and bring you lunch.”

Mr. Dyshekov?

She has to be talking about Lucca.

I want to tell her she can tell Mr. Dyshekov to go and fuck himself, but I stop myself. It’s not her fault her boss is a prick.

“I’m not that hungry,” I reply instead. It’s a lie since I barely ate yesterday, and I haven’t had anything to eat since.

My stomach betrays me by rumbling. It’s a low sound but loud enough for her to hear.

“How about I leave these here in case you change your mind,” Marylin says with a brighter smile.

She makes her way over to the little table near me and sets down the tray.

“Maybe some fresh air will do you some good. You can go out into the garden if you want,” she suggests in such a casual way that I wonder if she knows why I’m here. What I want is more than fresh air. I want to leave.

“I thought the door was locked,” I say.

“No, it’s not locked. So, feel free to go outside.”

“Sure, I will,” I reply.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Where is Lucca?”

A tentative expression washes over her face. “He’ll probably see you later. He’s working at the moment.”

“What kind of work does he do?” The instant I ask that question, I know I shouldn’t have from the way the light in her eyes fades.

She looks as if she doesn’t know what to say to me. “Maybe I should let him tell you that. You will see him later.”

I decide to refrain from pumping her for more information. Her vagueness suggests she wouldn’t answer the questions I need answering anyway.

There is, however, one last question I have to ask. One that I don’t particularly want to ask Lucca for obvious reasons. It’s one I need to have the answer for before I see him later.

“Is this his room?” I ask, giving her a pointed stare. She recognizes the meaning in the look and doesn’t shy away.

“Yes. This is his room.”

Question answered, and now my nerves are jangled, rattled in a way that makes my throat dry.

“It’s going to rain,” she points out. “If you want to go outside, now might be a good time.”

“Okay, thank you.”

She gives me a curt nod and leaves.

Once the door closes, I grab a few sandwiches and eat. As soon as the flavor of the chicken filling hits my taste buds, I reach for more and finish the whole thing.

As I pour myself some lemonade, I glance back outside. I down the glass then find myself walking to the door that leads out there.

I open it and see the stairs to the terrace.

When I step outside, the wind whispers over my skin, giving me some clarity. Not a lot, but just enough to breathe again.

Little droplets of rain sprinkle from the sky onto my nose, and I savor it. I don’t mind the rain. I never have. While others seek cover, I love the feel of it on my skin.

There’s something soothing about it. Especially when it’s not raining heavily enough to drench my clothes, this is just a light sprinkle to cool the summer heat.

I make my way across the stone pavement and down the wide steps leading into the garden of roses.

Up close, the scenic view is even more striking.

I wander around looking at it all until I must be on the other side of the house.

I stop by a hedge near a little pond and take in the elegant white swans swimming around.

Even with the prevalent danger lingering in the air, everything is so beautiful. The tension is a juxtapose to the serenity the place should have.

I’m about to lean in and smell a rose when the presence of someone behind me makes me jump. The fright makes me catch my finger on one of the thorns on the bush.

I pay no attention to the blood trickling from my fingertip, however. Instead, I give my undivided to the foreboding man standing paces away from me.

It’s the man who’s turned my world into some kind of surrealist piece of abstract art where nothing makes sense.

Later is now. It arrived sooner than I thought.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks in that cool tone he uses.

I noticed earlier it matches his expression perfectly. Anyone could tell straight away he’s a man who doesn’t give a fuck about who he hurts.

“I’m amazed someone like you lives here.”

“Scum?” He quirks a brow.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to. I’m not scum. He thinks I am, though, because my family had to work hard to get what they had. This was their home.”

Was.

Was as in past tense. I wonder what that means.

“Where are they now?”

“Dead.”

I shouldn’t feel sorry for him, but from the loss of my mother, uncontrollable compassion fills me.

“I’m sorry.” My words sound out of place, like they don’t fit in with us or who we are.

“Don’t be. It was nothing to do with you.”

We stare at each other for what feels like forever, and my nerves spike with every second that passes.

The way he looks at me makes me uncomfortable. It’s with an air of fascination that makes me wonder if it was he I lost my virginity to.

Annoyingly, the thought sends a shiver of arousal through me, and the weight pulls on my core. It’s that desire again from last night—that heated desire which is unmistakable and undeniable.

What’s worse is I can see from the darkening of his irises that he feels it too.

There’s an attraction between us I don’t want to accept, especially after last night. And this morning.

Yet, as I stare at him, I can’t help but wonder how we would have met if my father didn’t know I knew him.

How close were we?

I have so many questions, ones I feel he won’t answer, and it feels like he’s waiting for me to talk first.

When his gaze drops to my breasts, I realize my dress is damp from the rain and clinging to my body, showing more than I want him to see.

My nipples harden to razor-sharp peaks under the weight of his stare. I have to bring my hands up to my chest to try and hide myself.

“Go on, Printsessa,” he urges with a cocky smile that should be as illegal as he is. “Ask me. I don’t want my bride’s head to explode with all those questions she has swirling around in there.”

Him calling me his bride makes me cringe.

“Why do you want to marry me? What sort of business benefit is there in marrying me?”

“Business benefit?” He inclines his head, and his hair drifts over his shoulder. The fading sunlight captures the lighter hints of brown in the dark mass of wild hair.

“You don’t love me, so don’t play with me. Tell me the truth. You’re marrying a woman who has no memories beyond the last two and a half years. I think I deserve some explanation.”

He looks like he’s considering it. When he sets his shoulders back, my hopes rise.

“You fit in with my plans,” he answers.

“What plans?”

“Those don’t concern you.”

“How don’t they concern me? You have access to my whole life. This is wrong. You know it is.”

“Right and wrong are shades of gray that people manipulate to take whatever form they want. This is mine.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to marry you.”

“You don’t have a choice, and if I were you, I wouldn’t create problems. Your father wasn’t joking when he told you to do as you’re told. You need to. If you don’t create problems, you won’t have a problem with me.”

“But I am the problem. I want to know why you want to marry me. I’m not valuable.”

He smiles again, and my heart flutters. “Oh, but you are, Aria.”

“In what ways.”

He pauses for a beat and holds my gaze. “As the owner of Cervantes, you are very valuable to me.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean? I don’t own it.” That’s impossible. That’s Dad's company, and he’s never said anything in regard to me owning it.

“In two months, you will, and that’s what I want.”

“I… I don’t understand. I own Cervantes?”

“Your mother gave it to you before she died. I’m guessing your father never told you that.”

I shake my head, and he steps closer— too close. He circles me, then stops behind me and leans down to my ear.

“I’m sure we can both agree that your father might not be everything he appears to be.”

I bite my tongue because it’s true. He’s right, and I don’t want him to be.

He touches my cheek, and my body instantly betrays me.

The memory of his face comes into my mind, along with a kiss—the one from last night and another from before. That was the one I dreamt about.

“Where do I know you from?”

“I told you, you shouldn’t try and remember me.”

“Why? You’re the only thing I remember,” I confess, and as the words leave my lips, I regret it. I don’t think I should have told him that.

“Is that so? How unfortunate for you.” He backs away.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I guess I must have lied.” Fear seizes in my chest, snuffing out the arousal I felt moments ago. It amplifies as he runs his finger along my jaw, slow and menacing. “You don’t want a problem with me, Aria De Marchi. As you can see, you’re allowed to walk around the grounds freely. Fuck with me, and I’ll lock you away. Don’t do anything stupid like thinking you might be able to run away or that ‘daddy dearest’ can fix this. He can’t. If you run, I’ll find you, and if you love your father and don’t want him dead, you really will do as you’re told. I’ll see you later.”

Later, again.

With that threat, he walks away and leaves me for the second time today.

This time, I’m more shattered, more confused, more helpless.

And I have even more questions than before.