Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(42)

Reyna stares at the manager as if she’s planning his murder.

She says icily, “How kind. Thank you. Now please show me the biggest diamond you have for sale.”

“Do you have any preference for shape?”

“Whichever one’s the most expensive.”

The manager almost wets himself in excitement. “Right this way!”

Someone please fucking kill me now.

I follow behind them as they walk to a lighted glass display case near the back of the store. We’re the only customers, as Declan called and arranged a private showing for us.

I didn’t tell him I was bringing Reyna instead of Lili, because I didn’t want to get a lecture. Now I’m thinking I could’ve used a good lecture to talk me out of such a dumb idea.

I have no doubt that by the time we leave, I’ll be flat broke.

The manager, who still hasn’t introduced himself, hops behind the case and makes spokesmodel hands at the rows of glittering rings nestled in white velvet below.

I hear words like flawless and exquisite, but I’m too distracted to pay attention to anything else.

Reyna has leaned over the counter. Her posture and the way the fabric of her dress clings emphasizes the perfect rounded swell of her arse. Inspecting the goods in the case below, she lifts a hand to her jaw and slips a pinky between her lips, biting the tip of it in concentration.

Good God, that mouth. How I want to fuck that luscious mouth.

I have to force myself to look away so the front of my trousers won’t get tented.

“The pink ones are gorgeous. Lili would love those.”

“You have excellent taste,” the manager says, sounding awed. “Pink diamonds are among the rarest of all gems.”

“Probably the priciest, too,” I mutter.

“They sell for between one to five million per carat, depending on clarity and cut.”

When I send him a sour glance, he smiles like a used car salesman. “But who can put a price on true love?”

“Me,” I say flatly. “And it isn’t five million bloody quid.”

The manager glances at Reyna, who’s giving me a look that could melt solid steel.

“But darling,” she purrs, slinky as a panther. “Aren’t I worth it?”

I narrow my eyes at her.

She smiles.

Sensing a power play between us and an opportunity to profit from it, the manager says to Reyna, “If you’re looking for something really unusual, try this.”

He opens the back of the case with a key from the chain on his wrist, removes a clear acrylic stand, and sets it on the glass counter. On the stand sits a ring composed of a simple rose gold band with an enormous blood-red stone set in the middle. It glitters and flashes under the light like it’s alive.

“Is that a ruby?” says Reyna, frowning at it.

The manager replies in a hushed voice. “It’s a red diamond. One of only a few ever mined. It contains zero impurities and is absolutely flawless.”

It’s also the exact color of Reyna’s lush lips.

I stare at it, mesmerized by the vivid hue.

“Try it on,” the manager urges, pulling the ring off its stand.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Reyna starts to protest. But the manager has seized her hand and is already sliding the ring onto her left ring finger.

She yanks her hand away, but it’s too late.

The ring sparkles on her finger like a big, brilliant drop of blood.

She holds her hand out as far away from her body as it will reach and gapes at it with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s pale, and her hand is trembling.

I’m not sure, but I think she’s about to vomit.

Very gently, I grasp her wrist and slide the ring off her finger. The tattoo on her skin appears somehow darker, the slanting script seeming to crawl like hissing snakes.

I blink, and the illusion is gone.

Reyna murmurs something in Italian, then exhales a shaky breath.

“It is, isn’t it?” says the manager, beaming.

I hand the ring back to him. “You know Italian?”

He nods. “My mother was born in Rome. I never lived there, but we were brought up as kids speaking it at home. I took some college courses as well.”

Reyna pulls her arm from my grip. “Please excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”

“Yes, of course. Just through that archway. Second door on your left.”

Nodding distractedly, she hurries away without looking back.

As the manager is putting the ring back into the case, I say in a low voice, “Did you happen to see the tattoo on my fiancée’s ring finger?”

“Yes, Mr. Quinn, I did.”

“What does it say?”

When he looks at me quizzically, I smile at him. “She’s too shy to tell me herself.”

He chuckles. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. It is a little awkward.”

“How so?”

“Anyone with the words ‘never again’ tattooed where a wedding ring would sit probably has some strong feelings about matrimony. You must’ve been very persuasive.”

Never again.

It hits me like a kick in the gut: a powerful urge to unalive her already-dead husband.

With a new sense of urgency, I ask, “What did she say to you about the ring?”