Page 13 of Stolen Sin

Chapter 8

Emily

Marry him. As in, become his wife. As in, walk down the aisle with an utter stranger, some Greek-god-looking crazy person, and move into his house. And wear his ring.

And have his baby.

I could almost get on board. I mean, I’m not stupid. I can see how this would solve all my problems and then some. Five years isn’t all that long—and I’d probably do much worse for a guaranteed ten grand a month for the rest of my life.

Only that would mean touching him. Probably kissing him too. And letting him kiss me, and touch me back, and touch me everywhere, and put his dick inside me?—

And I can’t do it.

Because I want to do it, and that’s the problem.

I don’t get any sleep that night. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about fucking Simon until I’m a sweaty mess. I try getting myself off, but finger-and-toy stuff isn’t cutting it. I want the real deal. I want Simon to pin me down like a savage and fuck me like a beast on our wedding night.

Which is why I can’t go through with it.

The second I become his wife, he’ll have me. Maybe he needs me for this family leadership scheme of his, but there’s more he’s not saying. I’ll say the vows and immediately I’ll be in over my head, and all the while I’ll be stuck thirsting after some man I’ll never really have. Because why would a guy that looks like Simon ever want a girl like me? Some poor, dead-broke nothing that couldn’t even get herself together long enough to apply to college, some whatever-who-cares-nobody that hasn’t held a single job for more than a couple years.

It’d be pathetic. Even more pathetic than I already am.

And if my father taught me one thing, it’s that there are real predators in this world. There are men that want to take things from me and who will stop at nothing to get what they want.

Men who will lie and say whatever they have to say to get what they want.

Simon is one of those guys.

It’s written all over him. He caught me stealing and barely seemed to care. He broke into my car without thinking twice. He sifted through my life and my father’s finances as if he owns the rights to me.

If I marry him, he’ll destroy me. He can say whatever he wants now—but he’ll drain me.

And all the while I’ll be busy wanting more.

I’ll fall for it. That’s the worst part. If I go through with this, I’ll fall for it, and he’ll ruin me.

Just like those scamming bastards ruined my dad.

I can’t do it.

He’s just too good to be true, and I won’t let myself get suckered.

Which, if I’m being totally honest, is not easy to tell myself when I get up at four-thirty after zero hours of sleep to go make bagel sandwiches for six hours.

There are a dozen times during my shift when I’m tempted to run back to Cucina and beg Ethan to get in touch with Mr. Bianco. Who cares if I’m just an easy mark? Letting him bleed me dry has to be better than getting bacon grease in my hair.

It’s a near thing. I want to pretend like I’m big and strong, like I’m some epic hero or whatever. Instead, I’m just a girl, and not even a particularly stubborn one.

My manager lets me take some extra bagels home when I’m done with my shift and I decide to give them to my dad. He needs the carbs, and anyway, if there’s one person in the world that can remind me what kind of monsters are lurking out there, it’s him.

Not that I’d ever tell him the details of my conversation with Simon.

It’s bad enough I’m giving him money—if he knew some random ultra-rich psychopath was proposing marriage and trying to knock me up in exchange for paying off his debts, he’d go absolutely ballistic.

I park out front and head inside. I drop the bagels in the kitchen, but don’t spot Dad anywhere. His car’s out front, which is good, because he shouldn’t be driving anymore, but he refuses to give it up. “Dad?” I call out and poke my head up the stairs.

I hear something. It’s faint but coming from his room. Instantly, I’m hit with a jolt of adrenaline, and a million different worst-case scenarios play out in my head: he fell, he had a heart attack, he’s stuck somewhere and can’t get up, or a dozen other indignities. I hurry up the steps and rush into his room?—

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