The Blood Vow

Marlo

The heavy armored door of the SUV slammed shut, cutting off the chaotic screams from the warehouse fight pit and the distant siren wails echoing over Port Phillip Bay.

The interior of the vehicle was pitch black, saved only by the pale amber glow of the dashboard lights. The smell of cold leather, ocean salt, and the sharp, metallic bite of gunpowder filled the air. Outside, rain started to lash against the reinforced glass in violent, erratic bursts.

I leaned back against the headrest, my chest heaving as I tried to pull air into my burning lungs. My whole body felt numb, hovering in that strange space between shock and pure adrenaline.

My father’s old partner is alive. The thought looped continuously in my mind, sickening and surreal.

Beside me, Jarrah snapped open a dark leather medical kit resting on the center console. He didn't say a word. His broad shoulders were tense, the thick scar tissue across his back practically vibrating with a dark, terrifying energy.

"Turn toward me," he commanded softly.

His voice wasn't angry, but it was so quiet and low that it sent a sharp shiver sliding down my spine.

I turned my knees toward his seat. I hadn't even realized I was hurt until he reached out and gently peeled back the torn collar of my sweater. A stray shard of flying glass from the VIP cage had grazed the slope of my shoulder, leaving a thin, shallow red line across my skin. It was barely a scratch, but when Jarrah’s eyes landed on the smear of blood, the air left his chest in a harsh, dangerous hiss.

He reached into the kit for an antiseptic wipe.

His hand was huge, his knuckles split and bruised from the ring. And as he brought the white pad toward my skin, I saw it.

He was shaking.

Jarrah Vance the man who didn't flinch when bullets shattered concrete, the monster who ruled Port Phillip’s underbelly without a second thought was trembling so violently his fingers could barely hold the cotton pad.

"Jarrah," I whispered, my voice breaking in the quiet car. "It's just a graze. It doesn't even hurt."

"Shut up, Marlo," he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, agony-filled whisper.

He pressed the pad gently to my shoulder. The stinging bite of the alcohol made me draw in a sharp breath through my teeth. Jarrah froze instantly, his eyes snapping up to mine. The sheer, unadulterated terror in his amber gaze stole the breath right out of my throat.

"I almost lost you," he whispered, his thumb resting against my collarbone, feeling the frantic flutter of my pulse. "Two inches to the left. If I had been two inches slower..."

He couldn't even finish the sentence. His head bowed, his forehead coming to rest heavily against my uninjured shoulder. A long, ragged shudder ran through his massive frame.

Sitting there in the dark, feeling the heat of his body and the terrifying depth of his fear for me, something inside my soul finally snapped.

For ten years, I had fought this. I had viewed him as my captor, my stalker, a violent shadow who wanted to control my life. I had tried to analyze him like a textbook case, trying to rationalize the dark bond pulling us together. But standing on the edge of death tonight, watching my entire past turn into a mountain of lies, the truth was brutally simple.

He was the only real thing in my life. He was the fire that burned away my ghosts.

Jarrah slowly lifted his head, his face inches from mine. His hands moved up to cup my jaw, his calloused thumbs wiping away the dried dust on my cheeks. His touch was so careful, so desperately tender, that it made my heart physically ache.

"Listen to me, little bird," Jarrah growled softly, his amber eyes locking onto mine with a dark, terrifying intensity that made my skin ignite. "I don't care who is coming for us. I don't care if it's Siobhan, the syndicate, or your father's ghost. I swear to you on my own blood... if anyone tries to touch you again, if anyone even comes within a mile of your life, I will slaughter them. I will burn this city to the ground before I let them take a single drop of your blood."

It was a nightmare vow. It was possessive, dangerous, and completely insane.

And I loved him for it.

The slow burn that had been consuming me for months erupted into a roaring, uncontrollable flame. I didn't care about the rules anymore. I didn't care about being safe, or good, or reasonable. I was done running from the darkness. I wanted to drown in it.

I reached up, my fingers curling tightly into the damp hair at the back of his neck, and pulled his face down to mine.

I kissed him.

Jarrah let out a sharp, stunned gasp against my lips before his control completely shattered.

His arms wrapped around my waist like iron bars, hauling me right off my seat and onto his lap. The kiss was fierce, consuming, and desperate. It tasted of salt, iron, and a raw, breathless hunger that had been building for ten long years. His lips were hot, possessive, claiming me completely, and I opened up for him, burying my hands in his chest, pulling him as close as humanly possible.

I yielded every single part of myself to him. I pressed my heart against his, feeling his violent heartbeat echoing through my chest until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. The world outside the armored car ceased to exist.

When he finally pulled back just a fraction to let me breathe, our foreheads rested together, both of us gasping for air in the thick, heated quiet. His eyes were dark, burning with a heavy, unyielding devotion.

"You're never getting away from me now, Marlo," he murmured, his lips brushing against my jaw. "You know that, don't you?"

"I don't want to get away," I whispered, my fingers caressing the thick scar tissue near his collarbone.

Before he could answer, the dashboard radio crackled to life, the driver's tense voice cutting sharply through the heat.

"Boss! We have a situation at the harbor gate! Pier 42 just went dark!"

Jarrah’s body went rigid. He turned his head toward the front windshield.

Through the heavy rain, the lights along the shipping dock had completely died, plunging the entire coastline into thick, black shadow.

Then, a massive explosion rocked the bay, shaking our heavy SUV on its tires. A wall of orange fire shot up into the night sky, illuminating the silhouette of a helicopter hovering low over the water.

A mechanical loudspeaker blared from the helicopter, echoing over the roar of the flames:

"Hand over Marlo Cleary in five minutes, Jarrah, or the second bomb detonates under the city water main!"