Vow of Sacrifice (Vow Series Book 5)

by Emma Renshaw

  The candle on my countertop is the closest I can come to a hug from her.

  Carmen has wanted me to move into this apartment since we met, but I needed out of Texas in case Pierce came searching me. He did come searching for me, but I kept myself well-hidden. The opportunity to work and live in New York City for a while came up at the perfect time. When I signed the contract, it was only for a few months and my living expenses would be paid.

  The few months turned into almost a year as my client’s needs and demands took on a life of their own. As their web designer, I didn’t need to be present, but they wanted anyone who would touch the brand to be part of their “building of an empire.”

  I spent the past year in one of the largest cities in the world. In a city filled with eight million people, I felt more secure than I do in this apartment. It’s why I stayed for another year after my contract with the company was up, in the sea of eight million people, I was difficult to find and terrified to move home.

  These white walls need to be covered. This will be a home, the first home I’ve ever made for myself. My apartment in New York was company owned, fully furnished, and decorated in a funky style. The bold colors distracted from my aching loneliness. But the only things I could bring with me from Austin were clothes and Poppy’s paintings.

  That place was temporary. This place is my own. The first since I turned the page on a new life and a new Iris. An Iris who isn’t afraid, an Iris who will make friends, an Iris who will trust people. Maybe even love someone.

  The white walls around me are as empty as my life.

  I shake my head, eradicating the thoughts from my mind. It’s time to cover these walls and hit the start button on my new life.

  My sparkly turquoise hammer and matching toolbox were gifts from my neighbor Carmen. Tools can look pretty and still function, mija. Her words bring a smile to my face—a rare occurrence since returning home.

  Over games of badminton, cooking, and watching her perform karaoke like a pro, I started to trust her in the few short weeks I stayed with her before leaving for The Big Apple. I haven’t seen her since. I know she’s going to scold me in Spanish for not telling her when I was coming home and for not going to her door right away, but I needed…a minute.

  I take the hammer out and set it aside and pull the pencil from behind my ear. I scratch the spot where I’ll knock a nail into the wall. I slide the pencil back behind my ear, take the nail from my pocket, and place the end on the mark. I line up my hammer, aim, and swing.

  Completely missing the nail.

  A hole the size of a quarter is mocking me and the confidence I felt just a minute ago. I shake my arms out and get ready to try again, and I place the nail higher so the picture I’m trying to hang will cover the hole. Every few swings of the hammer, I pause and wait to see if Callan will make another appearance. I hope not, but my will to see Poppy’s paintings on my wall is higher than my wish not to see my new neighbor.

  After two hours, a few more holes in wall, and a couple of bruised knuckles, the white walls surrounding me are transformed.

  Six paintings are hanging around my living room, and one with a broken frame leans against the wall. My heart cracks down the center. It’s the original frame Grams bought so many decades ago. It’s been proudly displayed on walls, transferred through moves, and put in storage when Pierce ripped away everything I loved. The ornate gold frame survived all that, but didn’t survive a few hours with me in my new place.

  I only have a few memories of Grandpa; he died when I was too young. If I close my eyes, I can transport myself to each of them. They’re so tangible. The hard oak bench beneath my bottom, the whisper of a brush gliding over canvas, and a vivid image coming to life before my little eyes. Poppy in a weathered white undershirt tucked into blue jeans, a Pearl beer can perched on a table nearby, and a bottle of peanuts always within reaching distance.

  These seven paintings are the only things I have left from both of my grandparents. He painted so many more, but these are the only ones Pierce didn’t destroy in fits of rage.

  Each landscape was dedicated to my grandmother. They were her most prized possessions.

  I swipe at the tears rolling down my cheeks, and my front door rattles beneath a knock. I pad across the room with my bare feet. I pause before looking through the peephole and worry if it will be Callan. Thankfully it’s not, it’s Carmen, though I’m sure that’s much better at this moment. I slide the chain locks from their place and unlock the deadbolt on the knob.

  My smile wobbles a bit when Carmen’s eucalyptus scent hits me. The spicy smell wafting off of her when she sat next to me on a bus bench the night we met was a major reason I trusted her from the very first moment. It’s the reason I took a chance after leaving my husband and stayed with a stranger I just met for a few weeks. Carmen holds up a few Tupperware containers filled with food. The eucalyptus got me in her door, but her food made me stay.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I step back from the door, allowing her space to come into the apartment. She ambles down the hallway and into my kitchen.

  “I shouldn’t have. You come home and don’t even tell me, mija? You don’t deserve my carne guisada, but you’re too skinny—as I knew you would be. You’ll blow away in the next storm if I don’t feed you. I heard you moving in, but I gave you a few days of solitude. You’re welcome.”

  I bite my bottom lip and make my best attempt at a chagrined expression. Carmen doesn’t buy it. Even for a second. She starts muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Spanish and opens one of the containers.

  Cumin, onion, and garlic infusing together in a rich, creamy gravy, over thick cubes of meat, and fresh flour tortillas almost make me drop to the ground and beg forgiveness, if only for one bite of Carmen’s carne guisada.

  Pierce and I dined out most of the time or used a private chef. Before I left for New York, Carmen started teaching me skills in the kitchen. It was a way to keep me distracted from the thoughts spiraling around me.

  “If I promise to always call you and ask you to pick me up from the airport, will you keep feeding me and teaching me to cook?” I ask.

  “Yes, I will. I have another student now. Sometimes I try to teach the young man next door to you some new kitchen skills. He cooks, but it’s very basic. You know, young, single men can be that way.” I don’t miss the emphasis on the word single. I immediately shake my head, and the decadent smell I thought I would do anything for turns sour. Carmen is playing matchmaker with the subtlety of a pro NFL running back. I’ll have to squash those thoughts before she can concoct any plans.

  “Carmen.” My hand falls to her shoulder. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Wait till you see him before you say something like that.”

  I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop a grin from forming. Carmen is the only friend I have in this world. Just me and my elderly neighbor. I don’t want to be rude to her, but little does she know—I’ve met the man next door. And even though my mind has been sifting through hex codes in my mind to match the unique color of his eyes, I don’t want to see him again.

  #00FFFF? No, that’s too aqua.

  #008080? No, too much on the teal side of things.

  #0099CC? Nope, that’s a lapis color.

  I shake my head, clearing the thoughts and the code. If only I could see and study those eyes in the bright sunlight.

  “He’s a very good-looking young man. So charming and handsome. A hard worker. A real sweetheart too.”

  I can’t help the snort that escapes. I wouldn’t, in a million years, describe the man that towered menacingly in my doorway a sweetheart. A tall, masculine man with sharp features? Sure. A sweetheart? No. He’s too sinister for that. Carmen, who is pulling down two bowls from the cabinet, looks over her shoulder with an arched brow.

  She leaves two bowls on the counter and spins toward me, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll introduce you.�
� She lifts her chin in the air and her eyes narrow, daring me to argue. Carmen doesn’t have any kids of her own, but she has the I mean business look down. I lick my lips, shoving away my ingrained habit of shying away from conflict, preparing for a fight. I’m not ready to give in to her demands.

  “No introduction needed.”

  “You need a man in your life.”

  I purse my lips. Would I mind meeting someone and falling head over heels in love? No. But it has to be with a man who wouldn’t hurt me or intimidate me. Someone safe and secure. Normal. Never a man like the brooding guy who conned me into opening my door, only to yell at me. I don’t tell Carmen that; I shift to another tactic. A surefire win.

  “You’ve done well for yourself without a man in your life. I can do that too.”

  “Fine.” Carmen turns back to the counter and started spooning our meal into bowls.

  I smile victoriously.

  “If I go on a date with a man, you will, too.”

  My victorious smile and surefire win are decimated in under a second. “Um…no.”

  “You agreed,” she says.

  “I did no such thing,” I say, laughing at the absurdity of her words.

  She faces me again, placing her hands on my arms. “Mija. If I find a man, I’m willing to go on a date with you. Will you at least try to go on one date with a man?”

  Carmen has been single for forty years. She’s told me of the men who have tried to woo her and take her out, but she’s refused all of their advances. She is the talk of the town at the senior living neighborhood across the street. I could go on one date, and she didn’t say it had to be with Callan.

  I finally agree begrudgingly. “One date.” Not with Callan, I silently promise myself.

  A devious grin takes over Carmen’s face, and my hope that she will never find a suitable man vanishes. I’m pretty sure I just got played.

  Chapter 5

  Callan

  I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel, glance at the clock on the dash, and squeeze the black rubber wheel until my knuckles turn white. This shit is ending. Tonight. Three hours.

  Brae was supposed to be home three hours ago. Panic surged through my system every time her voicemail answered the phone. Just when I think I have a handle on this whole full-time guardian thing, she pulls a hard right, leaving me in the dust.

  I’m done with it. It’s over. It’s ending. I whip my car into the parking lot, slam into a parking spot, and hop out of my truck. Slinging my gym bag over my shoulder, I storm into Raise the Bar, James’s gym. The massive warehouse-like structure sits on its own large lot. Bold black brush strokes make up the name on the side of the building.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been into the gym, because of the longer working hours. I’m ready to release some steam and punch away the frustration of raising a teenage girl and thoughts of my new neighbor.

  She’s definitely not the eighty-year-old woman with cats and knitting needles I pictured.

  Iris.

  The name is fitting. Her eyes are wide and expressive, showcasing every emotion that filters through her mind. Terror, intrigue, lust—I could read it all. My life was spent hiding in shadows and locking shit away. That type of vulnerability calls to me.

  I hitch the bag higher on my shoulder, forcing myself to think about anything else. Barbell bench press and cable flys for my chest, dumbbell shoulder press and lateral raise for my shoulders, and parallel dip for my triceps. I run through the workouts in my head and plan the sets, anything to keep Iris out of my mind. She doesn’t belong in a place so fucked up.

  I can’t let my tempting neighbor distract me from what’s important: giving Brae a better life. And tonight, that starts with a grounding. I hitch the bag higher on my shoulder and pick up my pace across the parking lot. She’s in there.

  With him.

  My phone rings in my gym shorts pocket. I pull it out, my attention zoning in on the screen, but keep walking across the lot. I don’t know the number, but I recognize the area code.

  Chicago.

  My tennis shoes squeak against the concrete as I halt to stare at the screen on my phone. My head pops up, swiveling from side to side, combing my surroundings. I catalog every car, every person walking down the street, and every business I can see.

  Nothing.

  I don’t see anything or anyone that would lead me back to Chicago.

  I wait for the hair on the back of neck to stand on end, alerting me to someone watching me, but nothing happens.

  The ringing dies and the screen goes black, but it immediately starts up again. I ignore the call, jamming my phone back into my shorts. I crack my neck and reach for the red metal door; then I throw it open, slamming it against the wall.

  Another boulder is added to the load I’m already carrying on my shoulders.

  My pace picks up when I enter the building, and I scan the area until I spot Brae. Her head is thrown back and she’s laughing. The abandoned cell phone in a pink case, on the ground next to her, is hers. So it wasn’t lost or stolen. It’s in sight and close enough to hear; there’s absolutely no reason she couldn’t have answered. She’s sitting cross-legged on Corbin’s back, balancing herself as he does push-ups. His eyes are on Brae’s reflection in the mirror in front of him.

  I turn and stomp in that direction, solely focused on my sister. The sister I want to keep away from boys. I’m not ready to have the sex talk with her.

  Three years ago I found her in Mom’s dirty apartment, curled on the couch, crying. She looked as wrecked as the couch, with padding popping from the armrests and stains streaked across the fabric. That old couch, which had probably been pulled from a dumpster, should’ve been put out to pasture a long time ago. I didn’t like seeing her on that couch, and I hated it even more when I found her crying.

  My mom had been gone for days, and Brae had gotten her first period and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what do either. I definitely wasn’t going to take her to the mafia wives. I tried to keep that part of my life private from Brae. I didn’t want anything to touch her. Somehow I stumbled through a conversation I didn’t know how to have.

  With Brae sitting on the back of a teenage boy who looks at her like she personally arranged all the stars in the sky, I know another conversation will be coming sooner than I want it to. I want her life to be easy and smooth sailing.

  James cuts off my path before I make it to my sister and the kid I want to strangle with my bare hands. His hand lands on my chest and pushes me back.

  “Leave ’em alone.”

  “She hasn’t been answering her damn phone, and she was supposed to come home three hours ago.” The side of my face twitches along with my clenched jaw.

  “She’s been here all afternoon, she’s been safe. Hasn’t been out of my sight.”

  I release a harsh breath through my nose and spin around, going straight for the beaten red leather punching bags suspended from the ceiling. I drop my bag to the floor, not bothering with a locker. I put on my headphones, to tune out my surroundings, and wrap my hands.

  A heavy bass and rhythmic beat pumps through my ears as the first song on my workout playlist starts, and I bounce on my toes, getting my body warm and ready. The angry mood of the music matches mine, and the iron vise squeezing my chest loosens the barest amount when my fist lands against the bag.

  My next punch hits the mark. As the fire starts burning inside me, the stress of my life starts to melt away. I beat my way through thoughts of Iris. I knock out the never-fucking-ending worry that I’m not giving Brae a good life.

  The unknown caller from Chicago slithers into my mind.

  I haven’t had a call from the Chicago area since officially taking over as Brae’s guardian. When I left that city, I left it forever. There’s no going back or visiting.

  No one I would want to visit anyway. Mom is a piece of trash, and the mafia would sooner drop me in a vat of acid than have me over for Sunday dinner.

 
My life and freedom were bargained for, in this gym, about thirty feet in front of me. I escaped the unescapable. There is no going back.

  James approaches, keeping out of the way of the swinging bag. He lifts his chin. I let the bag come to a rest, tugging off my headphones.

  “Tatum wants you and Braelyn to come for dinner.”

  Tate, James’s fiancée, tries to have Brae and me come to dinner once a week. James is the only one who calls Tate and Brae by their full names. He has an aversion to nicknames. Even as we were growing up, he corrected anyone who tried to shorten his name or mine.

  “Will Corbin be there?” I look at Brae and Corbin. She isn’t perched on his back anymore but sitting in front of him, holding his feet as he does sit-ups. Their noses brush each time he rises. Her gaze slides past him and lands on me, and her eyes widen. She bites the corner of her lip, casting her eyes down.

  Yeah. She knows I’m pissed. I look at James. The corner of his mouth twitches, which is almost the same thing as smiling for him. “If Braelyn is going to be there, you know he will be too.”

  I grunt. Fact is, Corbin spends as much time as he can at James’s house. His foster family isn’t much to write home about. James watches out for him and has ever since Corbin first walked into this gym.

  “When?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  I nod. “We’ll be there.”

  James doesn’t acknowledge this verbally. He taps his hand against the side of the bag, indicating for me to keep moving and punching.

  “Jab. Right hook. Left jab. Left jab.”

  I follow James’s commands as I punch the bag and try to stray further from thoughts of Chicago and my troubles with Brae. The punches and jabs aren’t knocking them out of my head though.

  “What’s with you?” James asks.

  I swipe the back of my forearm across my forehead and wipe away the sweat. “Brae ignored my calls, didn’t come home. She’s…she’s…” I trail off, struggling for the words for how she’s acting.