Page 1 of His Sinner

CHAPTER ONE

BRIAR

If my stalker insists on holding me captive, I might as well enjoy my stay at his enormous Gothic estate.

Nicholson Manor is the home of every writer’s dreams, secluded deep in the woods on the peaceful mountainside. The vibrant red double doors are the only pop of color on the dark, looming mansion. Giant columns hold up the roof above the entrance, while sunlight pours in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, transforming the dark interior of the manor from spooky to opulent. Under the moonlight, Nicholson Manor morphs back into the eerie home perfect for housing the ghosts and ghouls of every writer’s disturbed mind.

On the bed beside me is a tray covered with scrambled eggs, bacon, burnt toast coated in a thick layer of peanut butter, and waffles absolutely smothered in syrup. My perfect breakfast. Saint de Haas may be the most skilled stalker to walk the earth.

I’m nearly finished scarfing down every bit of food in sight when he saunters into the room. Saint is already dressed in his usual dark slacks and pressed button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His jet-black hair curls adorably around his ears, his sharp jaw, regal nose, and prominent cheekbones all chiseled from marble. His height is towering and intimidating in a way that makes my mouth water. The curves of muscle along his biceps and shoulders make me long for him to tuck me back into bed, wrap me in his arms, and make me forget the whole world.

“How did you sleep?” he asks in a low, lulling murmur.

The burgundy duvet on his bed is so soft, it should be illegal. The mattress practically molds to my body. And what man owns silk pillowcases? I’m convinced he researched the best pillowcases for a woman’s hair and purchased them specifically for my arrival.

“Horribly,” I snipe. “Your body heat made me sweat all night. You’re the world’s worst furnace.”

I demanded to sleep alone, but Saint refused to comply. Admittedly, I slept better than I have in months. Maybe in my whole life. But I’ll be damned if I let him know that. I still can’t fully trust him with my eyes open, let alone closed for eight hours. He’s already tied me up once while I was in bed.

“Are you ready for day one of your writing retreat?” he asks.

A spark of excitement ignites in my chest. Maybe I should keep fighting him. Demand he take me back home. I know he has no intentions of letting me return after this month-long writing retreat. He wants me to live with him. To stay here forever.

But I can’t bring myself to want to return. Not yet.

“I am.” I straighten and his thumb grazes the side of my mouth, swiping away a streak of syrup. He licks the sweet liquid from his skin, devious tongue glinting as it slips past his lips, and I swallow the lump in my throat.

The only reason everything this man does is attractive is because he’s made me come harder than I ever have in my life. Three times. My brain is temporarily discombobulated by sex hormones. That’s all.

Saint holds out his hand to me like I’m royalty. His delicious ink-and-paper scent envelops me as I slide my palm into his, and he threads our fingers together to lead me from the room.

Last night, as his car climbed the long drive up to his manor, it dawned on me how truly secluded we are up here. There are no other houses for miles.

We descend the gently curved staircase and my bare feet slap against the pristine flooring. All of the walls are black or deep shades of gray, most of the decor onyx and gold. Chandeliers droop from the towering ceilings and tiny gargoyles and candelabra adorn the staircase.

“Are you a witch?”

He winks at me. “In the sense that I have a magic touch and a broomstick you can ride whenever you wish.”

I roll my eyes, even as his words make desire pool low in my belly. The dining room table is mahogany and massive, capable of seating twelve. “Do you often entertain guests?”

“Not if I can help it.”

I grin. Neither would I.

“This is the sunroom.” He drops my hand to pull apart two sliding glass doors. We step down into another room with floor-to-ceiling windows on every exterior wall and a door that leads to the tranquil backyard. “The windows are tinted so you can see out, but no one can see in.”

“Like there’s anyone around to spy on us.” Maybe I should be terrified about being so secluded with my stalker—now kidnapper—but I’m not. I’m savoring the peace away from all the distractions of normal life.

In the corner, a waterfall fountain gently flows, giving the room a tranquil effect. In the middle of the room, two chairs are set up with laptops on the coffee table in front of them. On the trays beside the chairs are two steaming cups of coffee and two plates lined with cheese and crackers. My favorite writing snack.

“What do you think, muse?” he purrs. “Will this suffice?”

Suffice. This is the kindest gesture anyone has ever made for me. Still, a part of me can’t admit that he’s winning this game. “Most likely.”

Saint guides me by the hand to my chair and sits beside me in his, where we stay for the next several hours, sipping from our coffees, munching on our snacks, and typing on keyboards. Every once in a while, his hand lands on another part of my body—my shoulder, my neck, my arm, my leg, my knee. Every time his touch grazes my skin, I stare at my computer screen and fail to type another word for the next ten minutes, too distracted thinking about all of the other places I want him touching me.

“I’m glad you’re here, muse.” His warm voice breaks the silence, dark eyes so full of adoration and joy, the unfamiliar lump returns to my throat.

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