Page 66 of Sinful

I wanted to find out what his name was and kill him too.

But if she wanted the honors, then I’d bring him to her and put him on his knees so she could have the pleasure of slitting his fucking throat.

I think we all had that desire.

We ate in silence, and when she was done, I took our plates and returned them to the kitchen before coming back and taking my seat again.

She still hadn’t moved away from me.

We sat in more silence for several long minutes before I finally spoke, not even knowing how to talk to her.

“Um, I, uh, don’t know what to say.”

Real fucking smooth, Sinclair. Way to state the obvious.

She fidgeted for a moment before she got up and went to her bag. Defeat coursed through me at her distance.

Hope sprung back to life, though, when she returned, a notebook and her pen in her hand, and sat next to me again.

I watched while she slowly scrawled words onto the lined pages. Her writing was beautiful. All loopy, like what I imagined a love letter would have looked like ages ago. And she had a message for me.

Are you OK?

I stared down at her words to me, my mouth dry.

She wanted to know if I was OK.

I couldn’t say the words, so I took the pen from her and wrote back.

I will be.

It began an exchanging of the pen and words. She wanted to speak to me. It was our first real conversation, and I didn’t want to screw anything up.

Do you promise?

I stared down at her words, hating the feelings burning my chest.

I’m trying to, siren.

I paused before writing more for her, hating that my writing looked more like chicken scratch than anything else.

Are you OK?

She took the pen from me and stared at the paper momentarily before finally writing back.

I don’t know. Sometimes. I’m scared.

I read her words, my heart aching for her.

What are you afraid of?

She took the pen.

Everything.

Her hand shook as she handed the pen back to me.

When I was younger, I was afraid. After my father shot me. I’m still afraid, but I’ve found that sometimes I can use that fear to be stronger.