Page 191 of Bad for Me

“I’m going to come so deep inside you, little stalker. Going to fill you up with my cum until it spills out of this pretty pussy and leaks down your legs,” Sinister says. Drops of sweat fall from his face to mine, mingling together.

“Please,” I whine, his dirty talk making me wetter. The room fills with the sounds of our harsh breaths and bodies coming together in a frantic race to cross the finish line. My nerves sing as the pleasure ramps up a second time, and a grin tears across Sinister’s face, giving him a savage look.

“Yes, come for me, Dolly. I need you to shatter around my cock when I release inside you.” He shoves his hand between us and pinches my clit, while biting down on my nipple at the same time. My back bows when my orgasm claims me, and Sinister follows a moment later. He stays inside me, rocking in and out, staring down at where our bodies join. When he meets my eyes, my mouth dries at the possessive look in them. “You shouldn’t have allowed me to do that, little stalker. Now that I’ve had you, I’m never letting you go.”

* * *

My fingertips traceover his tattoo as I cuddle into Sinister’s side. I’m…happy, I think. Content, at the very least. They aren’t emotions I’m overly familiar with, but I’m not going to dwell on them overmuch.

My body is sated, my mind is still a little numb from the orgasms, and I’m too lazy to do anything but bask in the feeling of safety being in his arms brings.

I shouldn’t feel like this, not so quickly. But there’s something about Sinister that makes me trust him—and not because he knows how to wring pleasure from me when I never fathomed it was possible. It’s an innate feeling, something residing so deep inside me I can’t identify it. But it’s there, all the same.

“Tell me the story about this,” I murmur, tapping on his tattoo. He shifts beneath my head, his pecs flexing as he turns to place a chaste kiss on my sweat-dampened forehead.

“It’s for my sister,” he replies, his hand coming up to take mine in his. He tangles our fingers together before going silent again.

“Sister?” I ask, wanting to keep him talking. I want to learn more about him.

“Foster sister, to be more precise. She was killed fourteen years ago, and I got the tattoo to remind me of her. She’s the reason I became The Carver. I wanted to get revenge on the men that hurt her.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I tighten my fingers around his. “I’m so sorry, Sinister. Why a bird, though?”

“It’s a wren. Her name was?—”

My veins fill with ice water, and I yank myself away from him. Backing away from the bed, I stumble over my feet as I shake my head. “No.” Sinister jumps up and advances toward me, his face wreathed in confusion. I put my hands up and retreat until my back crashes into the wall. “It’s impossible. You—you’re dead.”

Why does my chest hurt? I glance down at it, and my body staggers as black spots dance around my vision. My hands cover my heart as images from the past slam into my mind. I raise my head and reach my arm toward my dead brother—the boy whose body I watched Richard throw into the river.

“Sin?”

8

SINISTER

“Sin?”

Agonizing pain tears through my chest, and I freeze in place as my mind scrambles to keep up. Dolly—no, Wren—sways and her eyes roll up into the back of her head. I leap forward and grab her before she can crumble to the floor.

I crush her body to mine, still reeling. It can’t be. She can’t be Wren. Richard said he killed her, and Jack confirmed it—he even taunted me about it. This has to be a joke. I plop back down on the mattress, cradling my sister in my arms. As much as my mind balks at the idea, my heart whispers the truth.

My thumb runs over her forehead, searching for the little dent she got when Richard knocked her against the corner of a wall. It’s there, and fourteen years of grief and guilt spill out of me. Tears stream down my face as I rock her in my arms. I tell her over and over again how sorry I am. How no one will hurt her again. That she’ll never be alone.

While the words pour from my mouth, my conscience screams,You just fucked your sister.But she isn’t my sister, is she? Not really. We’re not blood related, and we didn’t grow up together.Stop trying to come up with rationalizations. You. Just. Fucked. Her.

After all these years,nowmy conscience wants to make an appearance? It can fuck right off. We did nothing wrong. The woman I watched kill a man, isn’t the innocent little eight-year-old she once was. I don’t know where she’s been all this time or what’s happened to her since I last saw her, but I know one thing for sure.

She’s like me.

I changed the day Richard threw me off the bridge. I was no longer Sinclair, but Sinister. And I have the feeling Wren is the same. Why else would she call herself Dolly, if not to reinvent herself? We aren’t the same downtrodden children who spent three years together in Limp Dick’s fortress. We’re something different. Tougher, stronger, more jaded.

Killers.

Our executions may differ in style, but we’re doing the same thing, aren’t we? Taking out the trash. Pride blooms in my chest when I relive her kill. She took out one of her abductors by herself. My arms tighten around her.Two down, little bird. Four to go.

Wren moans and thrashes in my arms. “Sinclair, help!” she cries, her eyes scrunched tight. “No, no. Don’t throw him in the river. Let me go!” I keep murmuring my assurances to her, and she eventually quietens, her breathing evening out.

She saw Richard do that? Jesus. Why? Why were they all so invested in making us believe the other was dead? Was it just for the grief it would cause us? Or something else? We may never have all the answers we want, and I’ll have to come to terms with that.

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