Page 5 of The Sinner's Bargain

Men with money and power.

Men who only wanted one thing. Had it been up to her, I would have already been in Jarrett’s clutches the evening we met on my fourteenth birthday. Malcolm threatened to run away if Mother dared to sell me. Father had been furious; Malcolm was his heir. His only heir. Without him, the family empire would crumble into the abyss. They needed him far more than they needed me.

Mother had relented but what little indifference she’d once had for me had blossomed into bitter resentment that curdled across her face when she saw me. Vile intolerance for the very air I dared to take against her wishes. Had Jarrett not been tangled in the messy state of his most recent divorce and not agreed to wait, had he not agreed to pay a small kingdom’s worth to claim me as his, Mother would have let me starve.

Maybe that meant I should be grateful to Jarrett.

Maybe allowing a man twice my age to pay for my virginity wasn’t so bad if it meant getting away from Mother.

Maybe the greater of the two evils was not accepting Jarrett as my savior.

I would believe all that if it weren’t for the fact that Jarrett already had four ex-wives. Each one was marched down the aisle at eighteen and left behind for a younger, prettier model at twenty-five. There was a string of children, some my age if not older. In all the years I’d been forced to speak to Jarrett, none of them had ever come up. I didn’t even know the exact number or a single one of their names.

But my tentative freedom from a man who made my skin crawl and the bile in my gut churn was over. The deal had been my twentieth birthday. I would be shipped off first thing to my new home in the morning.

My gaze flitted with hesitation to where my bags had been packed for a week in preparation.

Two designer bags.

Just two.

My entire life.

Twenty years’ worth.

I sighed, body reclining back into the frigid wall of the window seat. My shoulder pressed into icy glass, numbing the flesh beneath the satin robe.

I abhorred satin.

I loathed the cold feel of it touching my skin, rubbing against my thighs, brushing the erect points of my breasts. I hated the unnatural heat that promptly followed. The ripples of something too overwhelming to comprehend brewing in my belly.

But Mother insisted.

Satin was the symbol of wealth and femininity. Maybe she was right. She did have much more experience than me.

Abandoning the untouched cupcake and wilted candle on the velvet cushion, I rose. The hem of my robe slithered along my naked thighs and joined the matching slip at my ankles. Lamplight shimmered along the navy-blue material like ripples across a lake at night. I watched the hypnotizing glint all the way to the bed and the white, satin sheets waiting to test my sanity.

I had to take a deep breath.

I had to calm the anxious fluttering — dread, I told myself — starting somewhere deep, deep in my belly.

It was frustration, I assured my nerves. The fabric was cold and slippery, and uncomfortable. It made no sense why anyone would want to sleep in something that slid and ... and distracted a person from sleeping.

Yet, I bit my lip as I peeled the robe off and tossed it neatly across the foot of the bed. My fingers brushed the smooth front of the slip. I adjusted the thin spaghetti straps more firmly over my shoulders before pulling back the sheets and sliding beneath them.

I ignored the hem twisting up between my thighs. The tug and brush of the bodice across the sensitive peaks of my chest. The cool glide along all the places not covered.

I dragged the covers high around my shoulders and turned towards the warm, comforting glow of lamplight. My eyelids squished together as I willed sleep to take me.

Buttercream tendrils of light collected in patches across my room when I opened my eyes again. It drizzled over the abandoned cupcake, tipping the icing with a sad sheen. The solitary candle with its burnt wick and teardrops of wax appeared so much smaller in the wake of dawn.

It was a waste really. I couldn’t eat it. Even if I brushed my teeth and took a shower, Mother could always smell the sugar on me. The lecture that would follow wasn’t worth the stolen luxury, but life was about picking battles and learning not all wars needed to be won. A structure Father had built into my life like bookshelves containing all the things I didn’t fight for.

The covers were pooled around my waist. The left strap of my nightgown hung down my arm, exposing my left breast to the morning. The soft, pink nipple was swollen at the center of a perky mound.

Something at the sight of myself so exposed had me nibbling on my bottom lip. The place between my thighs gave a pang I was getting familiar with but still had no idea what it meant. I did know that if I touched my breast, teased the nipple until it was shriveled and tight, the thrumming grew until...

A loud knock brought me back to reality and the ridiculous notion in my head.

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