Page 26 of SINS & Temptation

And this is how easy it is for him to walk away.

Chapter Twelve

KENNEDY

Two in the morning.

And I’m still awake.

Eyes wide open, I follow the flickering moonlight as it filters through the wind-stirred trees. Shadows dance across the ceiling in a hypnotic ballet, each movement silent and sad.

When tossing and turning fails, I find myself reaching for my phone once more, a ritual I seem to repeat every ten minutes or so. It’s gotten to the point the screen’s bright glow doesn’t even phase my eyes anymore.

Nothing.

Not a single message or missed call to let me know he’s alright.

Ugh, can’t the lethal idiot spare two minutes from his harrowing mob mission to let me know he’s okay?

Or that he misses me.

Or hell, that he’s even keeping an eye on me like a stalker.

Frustrated, I slam my eyes shut and will my body to sleep.

But I just want to hear from him, and it’s driving me straight to the bowels of insomnia hell.

Not that I’m a stranger here. Nights have always been an anxious time for me.

After the night my Da was found dead, it’s like my brain permanently short-circuited. Enzo just managed to ratchet it up a hundred notches. And not even the opulence of his bazillion-thread-count sheets or cloud made from sleep angels can save me now.

I toss and turn, as nervous energy pulses through my body like a live wire, thrumming for me to get up. If Truffles was here, he’d be whining for me to stay still. But even he has abandoned me to disappear off to who knows where.

Probably canoodling with Dory again.

Frustrated, I totally unleash on the innocent pillow next to me—Enzo’s pillow—pummeling it with several harsh punches before resting my head against it again.

One whiff of his natural musky, earthy scent manages to soothe the low-grade fear that’s been a constant companion since I was a girl, but not by much.

For a guy who wanted me all to himself for a week, he’s playing hard to get like a champ.

Gah. It’s impossible to get to sleep here. I inhale the pillow next to me again, and blow out a breath. I know what the problem is. It’s the bed. It’s his bed. The scent of him swirls all around, impossible to ignore.

Not his cologne, which is heavenly. Or his body wash, equally addictive. It’s him. That sweet blend of hot-blooded Alpha male with just a hint of scotch and cigars.

When he’s here, I sleep like a baby.

Yeah, because he usually fucks you into a coma.

Shut up.

And it’s not like he does it with his dick. Which is weird, right?

I close my eyes. Instantly, solid muscles and ripped abs consume my thoughts before another thought enters the picture.

Oh, God. What if something happened to him?

I mean, he’s a D’Angelo. His own father was one of the most powerful men in Chicago, and he vanished without a trace.

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