Obsidian Vows

# Chapter One: The Wrong Place at the Worst Time

**Becky POV**

The man kneeling in front of me was crying.

Not the quiet, dignified kind of crying that men sometimes did when they knew death was coming. This was the ugly kind. Snot running down his lip, shoulders shaking, the whole pathetic performance. He'd pissed himself too. I could smell it from where I stood, that sharp ammonia tang mixing with the copper of blood and the stale cigarette smoke that clung to the warehouse walls.

"I have a daughter," he said. "Please. She's only six."

I tilted my head. Let him see the boredom in my eyes. That was worse than anger, I'd learned. Anger gave them hope. Boredom told them they weren't even worth the energy it took to hate them.

"You should have thought about her before you decided to skim from my shipments."

"I didn't, I swear, I didn't know, they told me, they said you wouldn't notice, they said, "

"They said a lot of things." I crouched down, bringing my face level with his. He flinched back. Good. "Who are they?"

His eyes darted to the left. Just a fraction of a second. But I caught it.

"Don't," I said softly.

He looked back at me, and I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes. The math of betrayal. His family's safety versus his own. He was going to lie to me. I could see it forming on his tongue.

"Don't," I repeated. "Think about your daughter. Really think about her. Do you want her to grow up without a father?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I can protect her," I said. "If you tell me the truth. I can make sure she never wants for anything. But if you lie to me right now, I'll know. And then I'll have to make an example of you. Do you understand what that means?"

He nodded, tears streaming.

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Good. So. One more time. Who told you to skim from my shipment?"

He took a breath. Let it out. And then he told me.

The name hit me like a slap. I kept my face still, but inside, something cold and furious coiled in my chest. Of course. Of course it was him. I should have known. I *had* known, on some level, but I'd hoped, stupidly, that he'd have more sense than to move against me directly.

I stood up. Nodded to Marco, who was waiting by the door. "Take him somewhere safe. Keep him alive. He might be useful."

Marco raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. He knew better. He dragged the man to his feet and out of the warehouse, leaving me alone with the bloodstains on the concrete and the echo of my own thoughts.

I pulled out my phone. Dialed a number I knew by heart.

"Sir," the voice on the other end said. "We weren't expecting, "

"I know what you were expecting. I need you to find someone for me. A girl."

"A girl?"

"Freen Sarocha Chankimha. Twenty-three. She works at a bookstore in the old quarter. I want eyes on her. Now."

There was a pause. "Sir, may I ask, "

"No. You may not."

I hung up. Stared at the blood on the floor for a long moment. Then I walked out into the Bangkok night, and I didn't look back.

---

**Freen POV**

The bell above the shop door chimed, and I looked up from the stack of books I was shelving to see him walk in.

Him.

I didn't know his name. I didn't want to know his name. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that might have been handsome if it wasn't so cold. He wore a black suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, and he moved through the store like he owned it. Like he owned everything.

He came in every Thursday. Always alone. Always at closing time. And he always, *always* found some excuse to linger near whatever section I happened to be working in.

Tonight, I was in literary fiction. So of course, he drifted over to literary fiction.

"Looking for something specific?" I asked, keeping my voice flat. Professional. I was not going to let him see that he made my skin crawl.

"Just browsing."

"You've been browsing for three weeks."

He glanced at me, and something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Interest? I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, I didn't like it.

"Maybe I'm a slow reader."

"Maybe you should try a different store."

"Maybe I like this one."

I turned back to my books. I could feel him watching me. The weight of his gaze was physical, like a hand on the back of my neck. I hated it. I hated *him*, this stranger who thought he could just insert himself into my life because he had money and nice clothes.

"Are you going to buy something?" I asked. "Or are you just going to stand there until I close?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Then wait outside."

"I'd rather wait here."

I set down the book I was holding. Turned to face him fully. He was closer than I expected, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive. Something dark.

"Listen," I said. "I don't know who you are, and I don't care. But you've been coming here for weeks, and you never buy anything, and you always stare at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve. It's creepy. So either tell me what you want, or leave."

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who wasn't used to being challenged.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. Held it out to me. "My name is Becky Armstrong. If you ever need anything, anything at all, call this number."

I stared at the card. Didn't take it.

"I don't need anything from you."

"You might. Someday."

"I won't."

He set the card on the counter. "Keep it anyway."

Then he turned and walked out, and the bell above the door chimed again, and I was left standing there with my heart pounding and my hands shaking and absolutely no idea what had just happened.

I picked up the card. Black. Gold lettering. Just a name and a phone number. No business, no title, nothing.

I should have thrown it away. I knew I should have thrown it away. But something stopped me. Some instinct, some whisper in the back of my mind telling me that this wasn't over. That he wasn't done with me.

I shoved the card into my pocket and went back to shelving books.

---

**Becky POV**

I watched her through the window for a long time after I left.

She was still standing there, holding my card, staring at it like it might bite her. Good. Let her wonder. Let her be curious. Curiosity was the first step. The second step was trust. The third step was mine.

I wasn't proud of what I was doing. I knew it was wrong. I knew she deserved better than to be pulled into my world, a world of blood and betrayal and bodies in warehouses. But I couldn't stop. The moment I'd seen her, three weeks ago, standing in that bookstore with her hair falling loose around her shoulders and her eyes full of quiet defiance, something had shifted inside me. Something I hadn't felt in years.

Want.

Not the kind of want I was used to. Not the transactional, disposable kind. This was different. This was the kind that made me do stupid things. Dangerous things. Things that could get us both killed.

I'd already started making arrangements. Pulling strings. Calling in favors. If anyone in my organization found out about her, found out how much she mattered to me, she'd become a target. A weakness to be exploited. And I couldn't allow that.

So I'd have to be careful. Patient. I'd have to win her over slowly, without her ever knowing she was being won.

I got into my car and drove away, and I didn't let myself look back at the bookstore. But I felt her there, behind me, like a hook in my chest. Like something I'd never be able to shake.

And I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that I would burn down the entire world before I let anyone touch her.

---

**Freen POV**

I didn't sleep that night.

I kept thinking about him. About the way he'd looked at me. About the way he'd said my name, even though I'd never told him what it was. About the card in my pocket, burning against my thigh like a brand.

Who was Becky Armstrong? What did he want from me? And why did I feel, against all logic and reason, like my life had just split into two timelines? The one before I met him, and the one after.

I got up at 3 a.m. and made tea. Sat by the window and watched the city sleep. Bangkok was beautiful at night, all neon and shadow, and I'd always found comfort in its indifference. The city didn't care about me. The city didn't want anything from me.

But Becky Armstrong did.

And I had a terrible feeling I was about to find out exactly what.