Oath of Submission (Deviant Doms #7) Read Online Jane Henry

Categories Genre: Dark, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Deviant Doms Series by Jane Henry
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Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
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She's left me two choices: Take her life or marry her.

When Marialena Rossi sauntered into my life and destroyed my plans, little did she know what she was getting into. Who I am. The consequences.

She'll take my name.
Bear my children.
Submit.

No matter what, she'll learn two things: Vows are unbreakable, and my word is law.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER ONE

Marialena

I finger the sparkling amethyst crystal before I place it in the palm of my hand and hold it to the light. A ray of sunshine hits a facet. It feels as if the crystal glows in my hands. At its very core, the gem is a deep, translucent shade of lavender.

“It’s beautiful,” someone breathes beside me. “What is it?”

I answer without turning to see who’s speaking, I’m so mesmerized by the crystal. “Amethyst. It’s a violet-colored quartz. A semi-precious stone, but so powerful.”

“Powerful?”

I finally turn and look into the curious eyes of a young, pretty blonde with pale blue eyes, her hair cut into a short but stylish cut. Waif-like and thin, I can see the pale blue veins at her throat. She’s a full foot shorter than I am and looks like she probably has to shop in the children’s section of the store for her clothes and could maybe use a cheeseburger.

“Yes, powerful,” I respond. “It gives protection and security and used to be recognized as a symbol of royalty. Amethyst calms the mind and spirit and protects against nightmares.” I shrug. “I keep a large one by my bed to help me sleep.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “A rock can do that?”

I’m used to the skepticism. I have four testosterone-laden brothers.

I smile and look back at the stone. “Why not?” I ask. “Sodium chloride is a rock, and we all widely accept the beneficial qualities of salt, don’t we?”

I don’t hear a response. I continue.

“But you don’t have to take my word for it.” I’ve long since given up trying to convince people to believe what they can’t see with their eyes or touch with their hands. And I don’t need others to believe what I do. I know what I believe. I know who I am. Her doubt doesn’t have anything to do with me.

She only gives me a thoughtful look and nods. “Thank you,” she says softly, but I’m not sure why. I watch as she retreats to the back of the store, glancing nervously over her shoulder and adjusting the strap on her handbag.

I look back at the stone in my palm and breathe in the cleansing air permeated with burning incense. Breathe in peace, exhale stress. Namaste is one of my favorite stores in Boston. Just wandering in here seems to make me calmer, more centered. Windchimes softly tinkle above us, hanging from circular hooks in the ceiling. Large glass domes filled with crystals of every shape, size, and color line shelves upon shelves, and some of the less precious stones lay piled in handwoven baskets, glinting in the overhead light. Silken, hand-crafted meditation pillows with satin covers and embroidered details are scattered throughout the store, beckoning customers to rest a while and let inspiration and intuition guide them to their next purchase. And Murry, Namaste’s resident goldendoodle, peacefully wags his tail in the corner of the store.

I love it here.

My bodyguard does not.

“Hmph,” he grunted under his breath when I told him I was heading to Namaste. He was half a second away from rolling his eyes when I scowled at him and frosted my voice.

“You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to buy anything. Why do you hate that place so much?” Amadeo’s one of our most seasoned guards, having been with us since before my father passed away.

He pursed his lips. “I don’t hate the place,” he said curtly. “Literally, go have a séance or whatever the fuck it is you do in there. It’s that the store’s design makes it impossible to keep a good eye on you. It’s all narrow and dark with only one entryway.” He punctuated his critique with a grunt. “Fire hazard if you ask me, especially with all that incense burning.”

“Ugh, hello, incense is the smoke that comes after you blow out the flame. And you people are ridiculous,” I protested. “I’m a grown woman who doesn’t need a good eye on her. When are you going to realize that?” He fixed me with that no-nonsense look I know all too well, like he took lessons from my brothers.

“The day your brother gives the order to lift my instruction to guard you.”

I rolled my eyes and scratched my forehead with my middle finger, casually flipping him the bird. “Of course. Right. Romeo says jump and you ask how high.”

Cue another eye roll.

And here we are. I may be Marialena Rossi, mafia princess under the thumb of the Rossi family hierarchy, but if I want to go to Namaste, I go to Namaste, and anyone who wants to give me shit about it can kiss my Italian ass.

Luckily for me and unfortunately for Amadeo, I am an expert at losing my bodyguards, much to my big brothers’ chagrin. So I watch. And I wait, carefully making my way toward the back of the store. Maybe it’s juvenile, but I am so done with the overbearing protective bullshit. I’m over having bodyguards and surveillance and everyone knowing every text I send and breath I take.


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