Page 40 of Sinful Games

His blue eyes locked onto mine, making me feel trapped. “Come on, baby. You can’t hate all men. I’m not that bad, am I?”

My heart flustered. “You’re the worst kind. Anyone working for the Silas is practically a soul-sucking void.”

“Touché.” He took a step closer, his proximity making my skin prickle. Our faces were so close I could feel his breath against mine. He leaned in, his voice a taunting whisper. “Are you as soulless as you think I am, Caia?”

Was I soulless? The question hung in the air, and I had no illusions about the answer.

Between the world’s charm, a generous helping of daddy issues, a non-stop replay of traumatic memories, and an unsettling parade of faceless men leaving their venom in my blood, it’s no wonder I ended up this way.

Soulless, worthless, and…broken.

Stepping closer, I licked my lips. "Wait and find out, Lucifer."

Chapter

Thirteen

“Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.”

?Moliere

Alexsei

I slammed another punch into his face, my frustration driving each hit, desperate to expel this fucking overwhelming obsession from my system. Just as he swung back, those deep, enigmatic emerald eyes flashed in my mind, throwing me off balance and making me dodge his punch, stumbling backward.

I stayed on the ground for a moment, cursing under my breath.

“What’s got you all riled up today?” Volk laughed, reaching out to haul me up. “I’ve never had so many chances to bash your face in.”

“Shut up,” I growled, spitting out the blood that had filled my mouth and dribbled down my chin.

Volk handed me a bottle of water, plopping down on the bench with a shit-eating grin. “What’s eating at you?”

I yanked off my T-shirt to wipe the sweat and blood from my face, rolling my shoulders and neck to ease the tension. “Caia Mankiev happened,” I muttered.

“Mankiev’s daughter?” he chuckled, taking a long swig from the bottle. “So, you finally figured out she’s not gonna fuck you?”

I checked if he hadn’t broken my nose. "Worse."

After our photo session yesterday, I took her to an Italian restaurant. She dug into a bowl of gnocchi mushroom soup, swearing it was the perfect remedy to warm her up. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and a few snowflakes had melted in her chestnut hair.

She started talking about her favorite ice cream flavor—pistachio, which I find fucking gross. When I made a face at her choice, she looked so offended that I blurted out I loved it too, surprising us both.

Yep. I must've lost my fucking mind.

Later, I dropped her off at home. She mentioned having to work the night shift because of a flu outbreak among her colleagues. I gave her a peck on the cheek and drove off, her scent lingering in my car, and her eyes stuck in my head.

“Let me guess,” Volk paused, pretending to think. “She won’t do anal?”

I threw the bottle I was holding, and he dodged it with a laugh.

“What? I don’t see what could be worse,” Volk shrugged. “I mean wanting to fuck Mankiev’s daughter is already bad enough. I can’t believe she has his DNA in her blood. Poor girl, she?—”

"She's nothing like her fucking useless father," I snapped.

He fell silent, a slow smirk creeping onto his ugly face.

Damn it, I should’ve hit him harder.

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