Vow of Deception (Deception Trilogy #1) by Rina Kent

The most proper reaction to his ludicrous offer is to actually laugh. But I don’t have the sense of humor for that. And I suspect he wouldn’t take it well if I somehow burst out laughing in front of him.

He’s so serious, it’s etched in his features, his mannerisms, and even the way he speaks—as if he’s never smiled a day in his life.

Like the act of smiling would be offensive to him.

He and the men outside are not normal. I can see that without having to learn who they actually are. It can be tasted in the air. It instantly shifted after they came into the picture.

Dangerous people need to be dealt with using caution, not force, because the second option will only get me hurt.

“Be your wife?” I repeat, my tone low, but it projects the incredulity I feel.

The Russian stranger releases my hips and I scoot to the other side of the car, putting as much distance between us as possible.

The lack of his touch is like losing warmth in the middle of an icy storm. But I’d rather freeze than be burnt to death by him.

“Correct.” He interlocks his fingers in his lap. They’re long and manicured, and I can’t help but stare at the wedding ring on his left hand.

“You’re already married.”

His gaze slides to his ring as if he’s forgotten it’s been there all along. His thick black lashes frame his eyes while he takes a moment, studying it. His expression is weird. When someone thinks about their spouse, they would ordinarily either soften out of adoration or grow grim out of sadness or despair.

He’s doing neither.

His lips thin in a motion that suggests he wants to strangle the ring and the one who slid it on his finger.

Before I can read further into his reaction, his attention glides from his hand to me, and the emotions I thought I saw in his steel eyes vanish as if they never existed. “You’ll pretend to be my wife.”

“Pretend?” I don’t know why I keep asking these questions, entertaining him, but the situation is so surreal, it feels like I’ve been thrust into one of those Christmas tales.

“My wife passed away a few weeks ago, and there’s no one who can perform her duties anymore, so you will be her replacement.”

“Oh.” I don’t mean to say that out loud, but it escapes from me anyway.

I stare at him from a different perspective. At his straight, confident posture, at his choice of dark wardrobe, at his black hair and thick stubble, at the shadows caused by his cheekbones. And, finally, at the dimness in his gray eyes that appear to have been cut from New York’s gloomy sky.

Have I felt uncomfortable around him because of this negative energy he projects? Now that I’ve learned the reason behind that energy is the recent death of his wife, I don’t know how to feel.

Still, the unease is lurking under my skin like a clotted blood vessel, blocking the normal flow of oxygen to my heart.

His hands, although resting on his lap, feel like they’re pushing up against my soul, applying pressure and trying to burst through.

That’s…dangerous. Terrifying, actually.

I might have ended up on the streets, but my instincts are intact and they can at least recognize danger.

This man is the definition of it.

His good looks, strong physique, and effortless confidence don’t fool me. If anything, I view them as his tools of destruction.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” I say as calmly as possible. “But I can’t help.”

“I don’t need your insincere apologies. Just do as you are told.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t be your wife.”

“Yes, you can. In fact, you’re the only one who’s able to fit that role.”

“The only one? Have you seen me?”

He taps his fingers against his thighs as his gaze slides from my face to my torso and down to my foot that’s missing a shoe. I’m the one who asked if he’s seen me, but now that I’m trapped under his scrutiny, the sense of inferiority from this afternoon grips me again.

He must be seeing a monster, a smelly one at that, and while I rarely feel self-conscious about my lifestyle, I do now. The unwelcome sensation slams into me with a harshness that robs me of breath.

I begin to squirm, but stop myself.

“I do see you.” He speaks slowly, almost like he has a different meaning behind the words. The tapping of his fingers comes to a halt. “Clearly.”

“Then…you must see I’m not fit to be anyone’s wife.” Let alone his.

He reaches into his coat pocket and I expect him to pull a gun out and shoot me in the face for wasting his time. However, he retrieves a black leather wallet, opens it, and slides a picture out.

A small gasp leaves my lips as I stare at the woman in it. It’s a solo shot of her in a wedding dress. Her dark brown hair is gathered in an elegant bun, revealing her delicate throat. The dress’s neckline falls off her shoulders, accentuating their curves and her collarbone.

Her nose is petite, and the contour of her face is defined while remaining soft. Light makeup covers her fair skin, enhancing her quiet beauty. Her full lips are painted in a nude color and her eyeshadow is a similar shade.

Her eyes are a turquoise so blue, it’s like she’s peering into my soul and waiting for it to peer right back.

A small smile pulls at her mouth. It’s a mysterious one, almost like she doesn’t want to smile, or perhaps she has a different purpose behind it.