Page 137 of Sinful Pleasure

She can’t just come into my life, make me feel things I never thought I would, and then just disappear. Take it all with her. Leave me with this deep, ugly hole inside me.

I hate that I feel weak.

Weakness is poison, and it’s going to fucking destroy me.

For twenty-five years, I lived without feeling anything and I was fine.

I didn’t need it. I didn’t need her.

Why the hell did she have to do this to me?

“I need to get her back,” Angelo says, his voice desperate. I can’t help but chuckle darkly.I shake my head, wiping the sweat from my chest with the towel, standing up from the bench.

“Maybe it’s for the best. They got what they wanted.”I’m lying. I’m trying to convince myself, but it’s a fucking delusion.

“You know now that they have her, the war is just the beginning.”

“This is our father’s problem, not ours.”

If it wasn’t for his stupid orders, my life would’ve never crossed paths with hers.None of this would have happened.

I toss the towel into the bin.

“There is a bright side to this, you know,” I say, glancing at Angelo. “You won’t have to marry her.”

I curl my lip slightly. There’s some twisted relief in that. At least I won’t have to watch him with her for the rest of my miserable life.

“I gave my permission to marry her.”

My jaw clenches. I remember hearing it from our father, but hearing Angelo say it straight to my face—fuck, it feels like a punch.

“Why?” I ask, my voice flat.

He stays silent, his gaze locked on the ground, as if it holds the answerto the sinking feeling in my chest.

“Don’t tell me you fell in love with her.”

Please, for your own fucking good, don’t say you did.

“No, of course not,” he answers too quickly, and a wave of relief washes over me. “But I like her. She’s different.”

Damn right, she is.

The ironic thing? I could say the exact same thing about her.

“You better forget about her,” I snap, pushing the anger down, trying to bury it. “We’ve got other shit to deal with.”

The truth was I need to drop this—to forget her.

“I’ll find her.”

I grind my teeth. His words are like salt in an open wound.

“Don’t expect me to help you with that.”

I turn and leave before he can respond.

Allyn Delgado, or Romano—whatever the hell her last name is—haunts me, no matter how hard I try to push her out of my mind.She’s branded there, like some permanent ink that won’t fade, as if she has any right to be.

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