Page 83 of Wicked Sins

“Dive in the pool.” I tug at the collar of her t-shirt. “Naked.”

“Oh my God, you absolutely suck at this game,” she announces, turning wide eyes on me. “You can’t steal my dare.”

“Too late to change the rules.”

“Thosearethe rules, I didn’t just—” she cuts off with a strangled sound.

Then she stands, grabs the hem of her shirt, and pulls it over her head.

“Christ, I was joking,” I say, bolting to my feet. “We can’t leave the pool house, idiot.”

I grab her shirt, and manage to tangle her hands in the fabric instead of drawing it back down her body. She giggles, tugging to get free, and loses her balance. I catch her, but I’m not centered either, and we both dance a few steps to the left.

Luckily, the couch stops us. Candy melts over the back of the couch, laughing hysterically. I push away, running fingers through my hair as I take a step back to gain some distance.

Her laughter dies down as she straightens and tries to get her shirt back over her head.

I watch her for a second before I realize just how drunk she is.

“Here, let me—” I step closer and reach for her, trying to help her untangle her shirt.

“I’m fine!” Her voice echoes back from the pool house’s walls.

“Jesus, I just wanted—”

She shows me her teeth. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Candy spins around and stalks to the bar, lifting her glass and taking a big gulp from it.

“You’ve had enough,” I say, smoothing down my clothes before running my hands through my hair.

She drains her glass and pours herself another without bothering to acknowledge my comment.

I could have left the pool house then. I don’t know why I was suddenly so invested in whether or not my stepsister got drunk enough to bruise herself again.

But I can’t let it go.

I want her here with me, physically, mentally, emotionally. And that’s not going to happen if the alcohol content in her blood goes up another percent or two.

“Enough!”

She ignores me and lifts the tumbler to her lips.

I’m beside her a second later, knocking the glass from her hand. It shatters on the bar counter, spraying both our faces with liqueur and shards of glass.

“Fuck!” She holds her hands by her face, trembling.

I felt a sting on my cheek, but Candy got the worst of it. I grab her shoulder and spin her to face me. Ripping off my shirt, I wad it in my hand and use it to dab her face.

“Don’t open your eyes,” I tell her.

Her eyelids quiver, but she does as I say and keeps them closed. Miraculously, she didn’t get any cuts on her face.

“You’re fine,” I say gruffly, stepping back and dropping my shirt on the bar counter.

“I’m fine,” she repeats quietly, eyes still closed, mouth now pursed into a line. “I’m fine.”

Her face scrunches up. That slash of a mouth contorts, and a single heavy sob escapes her. She sags to the floor, and my heart goes right down with her.

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