The King's Vow

Frankie

Most people would say waking up naked in a Vegas hotel suite with a stranger is a sign you’ve completely lost your mind.

But the thing is—I’ve never really claimed to be sane.

Sanity is for women like my sister Abigail. Obedient. Polished. Programmed since birth to say the right things, wear the right smile, marry the right man.

Not me.

I was the glitter-drenched rebellion. The screaming middle finger in a diamond tiara. The heiress who climbed out of her window at sixteen just to ride on the back of a Hell’s Angel’s motorcycle for a taste of freedom and the wind in her face.

And yet this… this is a new level of chaos.

My head is pounding, like I smoked tequila and chased it with regret. There’s a dull throb behind my right eye, my tongue is dry as ash, and my legs are tangled in a tangle of silky sheets that aren’t mine.

The bed smells like sex. Like sin. Like expensive cologne and my perfume twisted together in a scent that’s too intoxicating to be safe.

And the man beside me.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t scream. I’ve been trained too well for that. Debutante balls. Charity galas. Countless weekends at finishing school in France. My reactions are private. Contained. Like scars hidden beneath couture.

But my stomach flips violently the moment I see him.

My breath catches. Because… okay, holy shit.

He’s gorgeous.

Like seriously gorgeous.

Even half-covered by a sheet and draped across the mattress like a damn Renaissance sculpture, the man is a walking sin. Dark hair. Tattoos. An arm flung over his face, as if the light leaking through the blackout curtains is offending him. Broad chest on full display. Defined. Cut with the kind of muscle that says he doesn’t need to his the gym—he owns the fucking gym. Shadowed stubble, strong jaw, lips I can still feel on my skin if I think too hard—

There’s a faint bite mark on his neck and lipstick smudged faintly along the curve of his throat. My lipstick.

And thank God, because at least I didn’t go home with some sloppy frat boy or desperate hedge fund manager with a hairline crisis. No beer goggles. No shameful mistake.

He’s older. Refined in that dangerous, powerful way that says he has people who open doors for him and probably a past paved in broken rules and busted jaws. He’s the kind of man girls whisper about. The kind you don’t bring home to meet your parents—you bring him home to ruin your life and wreck your soul for the experience of it.

My thighs ache.

My lips are swollen.

I have definitely had sex with him.

And for one fleeting second, I feel smug as hell.

At least it was with him.

Then I see it.

A gold ring.

On his finger.

My stomach drops so hard it leaves my body behind. My entire spine locks.

No. No, no.

I stare at that simple band like it’s a goddamn weapon.

He’s married.

Oh my God. I slept with a married man.

The high from two seconds ago evaporates. Panic detonates in my chest.

I lurch back like he’s contagious. I can’t even think, can’t breathe past the choking knot of horror in my throat.

My skin crawls. My heart stutters. I don’t if I want to scream or puke or scrub myself raw.

I’m not that girl. I’m reckless, yeah. Wild? Sure. I’ve broken rules and hearts and maybe a few laws—but I don’t fuck married men.

Oh god.

“Oh hell no,” I whisper, panic sharpening into rage as I look back at his smug, sleeping face.

“Hey!” I snap, shoving his shoulder.

Nothing.

I grab the pillow and slam it against him.

“Wake the fuck up, you disgusting piece of shit!”

He groans, rolling toward me—and that’s when I kick him. Hard. Right in his side. “Get your cheating ass out of this bed!”

“What the—fuck?” His voice is rough, thick with sleep and confusion. His brows pinch, one arm curling protectively around his torso as he blinks up at me. “Are you seriously—?”

“Are you married?!” I scream. “Because if you are, I swear to God I will end you. I will make your wife look like a Disney villain and I’ll be the princess she never saw coming.”

He blinks again. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, asshole. I see the ring. Did you forget to take it off before you fucked me? Or is this your thing? Some sick little game—pick up a drunk girl and hope she’s too out of it to notice you’re a two-timing scumbag?!”

My skin crawls just from being in the bed with him. Before I can even think about it I’m scrambling off the bed taking the sheet with me.

He groans again, squinting like the light’s stabbing knives into his skull. “Jesus Christ, can you stop shouting?”

“Not until you answer the question!” I shout back, pacing like a caged animal. “Are you married?”

“Are you married?” I scream again, voice shrill, my hands fisting the sheet tighter against my chest.

He groans, sitting up with a wince, scrubbing both hands down his face like he’s trying to physically erase my voice from his skull. “No.”

One word. Gritted. Sharp. The sound of a man losing patience—and not the kind who loses it quietly.

Then he’s moving.

Climbing out of the bed.

Fully naked.

Not even a second of hesitation.

I make a strangled sound and spin half away, eyes wide as I try not to look—and immediately fail.

Jesus Christ.

He’s huge. And not just in the way my brain unfortunately clocked. Every inch of him is cut in sharp lines, hard muscle, brutal edges. There’s not a trace of softness on him. Not in his body. Not in his movements. Not in his fucking soul, clearly.

His back flexes as he crosses the room, shoulders broad, tattoos coiling down one side like inked armor. His gait is effortless and terrifying—like a man who knows no one in the world is stupid enough to fuck with him.

He yanks open the mini fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and twists off the cap in one clean motion.

Drinks.

Three long swallows.

Still fucking naked.

Still not looking at me.

And I can’t stop looking at him. My brain is in meltdown, but my body? My body is horny and deeply confused and about one more glance away from betraying me entirely.

“Could you put on pants?” I snap, furious with myself for noticing anything about him other than the fact that he’s a cheating bastard and potentially a serial killer.

He finishes drinking and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, finally turning to look at me.

“No,” he says simply.

My jaw drops. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” he growls, tossing the empty bottle into the sink with a loud clatter. “I’m not dressing myself like a fucking debutante just because you’re throwing a tantrum.”

“A tantrum?!” I sputter. “Are you seriously calling this a tantrum?”

He turns fully toward me now, arms spread slightly like he’s daring me to keep going. “What would you call it?”

“I’d call it a justified reaction to waking up beside a married man I don’t even know!”

He flinches slightly. Just enough to notice. But not from guilt—from confusion.

“Married?” His voice is sharp now, slicing into the air like a blade. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I point, shaking with fury. “You’re wearing a ring, you psychopath!”

He lifts one hand, then the other, brows snapping together as his gaze drops to his left ring finger.

The ring glints in the light.

A slow, heavy silence settles between us.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, staring at it like it materialized out of thin air.

“Oh, now you see it?” I snap. “You seriously didn’t notice that until just now?”

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. “No.”

“You think I’m just yelling for the fun of it? That I’m making this up?”

He’s still staring at his hand, turning it slowly, flexing his fingers like he can will the ring to vanish.

“I don’t wear jewelry,” he says flatly, mostly to himself. “I don’t even own a ring.”

“Well, congratu-fucking-lations, you do now.” I hurl the closest pillow at him. It bounces off his chest and lands at his feet.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink.

“You’re not married?” I press, voice rising again. “You’re seriously telling me that you don’t remember putting that on? Or the part where you crawled into bed with me and—oh, I don’t know—had sex with a total stranger?”

“I don’t remember shit,” he snaps, his voice slicing into mine with steel-edged finality. “I don’t remember getting here. I don’t remember you. And I sure as hell don’t remember putting a fucking ring on my finger.”

I stagger back like he hit me.

He rakes a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath as he stalks to the dresser and starts yanking open drawers. “Where the fuck is my phone?”

“You think I have it?” I snap, still fisting the sheet like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. “I don’t even have panties, dude.”

He pauses. Looks at me. Really looks at me now. At the sheet wrapped around me, the bruises on my thighs.

I see the moment it hits him.

His eyes sharpen. His jaw goes hard.

“We fucked.”

I throw my hands up. “Well done, Sherlock.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even seem rattled by the fact that neither of us remembers it.

Just cold.

Calculating.

Like he’s already two steps ahead, solving a problem I didn’t know I was part of.

My brain is a thunderstorm of panic, and he’s just standing there like he’s above the lightning. His complete calm in contrast to my absolute breakdown makes me want to scream louder—rip the goddamn wallpaper off the walls just to feel in control of something.

“Can you—” I stammer, then press my palm to my forehead. “Can you please put some clothes on?”

He turns, brow cocked like I’ve just asked him to perform brain surgery.

“I can’t take you seriously when your dick is just out,” I snap, biting the words off like glass. “It’s distracting.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Seriously?” I gesture at him with one hand and grip the sheet tighter with the other. “Do you always hold arguments fully nude?”

He doesn’t dignify that with a reply. Just walks, slow and heavy-footed, across the room toward a pile of discarded clothing. Not even a flinch of modesty. Just abs. Tattoos. And the confident swagger of a man who’s been feared longer than he’s been admired.

He bends, grabbing a pair of black boxer briefs, and slides them on like he’s doing me a favor.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters without looking back.

“Oh, you’re a real gentleman,” I snap. “Chivalry isn’t dead—it’s just standing here half-hard and hungover.”

He cuts a glare over his shoulder. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’m sure you weren’t complaining about that last night.”

I inhale sharply. “I don’t remember last night.”

“Neither do I,” he mutters. “Which means we’ve got a bigger problem than your moral outrage over my nudity.”

“Yeah,” I shoot back. “Like how the hell I ended up in a bed with a man who looks like he strangles people for a living.”

“I don’t strangle people,” he says calmly, pulling on dark joggers now, low on his hips. “Not unless they deserve it.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He opens the mini fridge again, grabs another water bottle—doesn’t even attempt to offer me one—and downs it like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. My eyes flick to his hand again. The ring still there. Still shining like a warning.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Why would a married man sleep with a stranger?”

“I already told you,” he snaps, tossing the bottle onto the counter. “I’m not married.”

I scoff. “Then explain the fucking ring.”

He turns, his eyes dragging over me like a slow burn—and then he smirks. A dark, humorless twist of his lips.

“That’s rich,” he mutters, nodding toward my hand. “Considering you’re wearing one too.”

My stomach plummets.

“What?”

He gestures lazily, like he’s too tired to deal with how stupid we both clearly are. “Left hand. Ring finger. Big fucking clue.”

I glance down.

And there it is.

Shining. Mocking. A simple gold band snug on my finger, like it’s always belonged there.

“No,” I whisper, lifting my hand like it’s infected. “No, no, no, no—no.”

The air rushes out of me in a sharp, broken exhale. My vision tunnels. I stagger a step back, nearly tripping on the sheet wrapped around my body.

“See?” he says, voice tight and dry. “Not just me.”

I shake my head. “This isn’t possible. This isn’t fucking real.”

He crosses his arms. “Starting to think we didn’t just have sex, princess.”

“No,” I bark. “Don’t say it.”

He shrugs, then mutters under his breath, “Vegas.”

That one word hits like a punch to the chest.

My eyes snap to the nightstand—drawers half-open, paper peeking out. Something thick. Folded. Official-looking.

I lurch forward, grabbing it with shaking hands.

And when I unfold it, the world stops.

Marriage Certificate

Francesca Moreno

Matteo Romano

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

I sway where I stand, blinking at the paper like it’s a bomb about to go off in my hands.

He takes it from me slowly, scans it.

A slow, brutal exhale leaves his lungs.

Then, flatly—

“Well. Fuck.”