Page 78 of Widow's Walk

She blinks slowly. Twice. Then a single tear breaks free, and she swallows it down like poison. But I can see the way her mind is splintering, the way her body trembles like it wants to believe me but doesn’t know how.

Because Sinclair isn’t built for love. She’s fire and smoke. A creature of chaos and independence. She’s unpredictable. Fearsome. Brilliant.

She’s also strong and brazen.

Resilient to a fault.

Loud without making a sound.

Possesses just enough compassion to prove she has a beating heart beneath the armor she forged from pain.

She’s everything I never thought to want. Everything I never dared to believe could exist. Everything I can’t live without.

And somehow, she’s planted something inside of me, and it’s growing into a man born only for her.

She doesn’t try pushing me away.

She doesn’t say something vile to tarnish the moment.

She lets the words continue to hang there between us.

Chapter thirty-six

Blackwell

The sun casts a golden hue over the outdoor venue.

The string quartet, lush gardens, and lights strung up over our heads set a romantic ambiance. My cousin Kamea is celebrating her one-year wedding anniversary with a large party. They’re calling it their wedding ceremony do-over, since an unexpected visit ruined theirs.

After the champagne toasts and the formalities, I find myself sitting next to an attractive woman, politely humoring a conversation with her. Her name already forgotten.

I feel the shift in the air and look right at the storm in heels approaching with bad intentions. Strutting, hips hypnotic, over the pavement, eyes locked onto me and ablaze.

She says nothing when she reaches me, then slides right onto my lap, an arm looped around my shoulders, perching herself there like a throne that she owns. Her back pointedly turned towards the woman in the middle of a sentence. Deliberately ignoring her and effectively dismissing her.

My arm instinctively goes around her waist, anchoring her against me, while I don’t even attempt to hide my grin. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

She gives a subtle roll of her eyes, avoiding eye contact. “No.” She finally gives in and meets my eye. “Fine. Possessive maybe. Who knew?” She sips her wine casually.

“You’re even more intimidating like this,” I rasp, my lips brushing against her temple. “Like you’re one mood swing away from chopping a man’s balls clean off.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Alexia Bonnetti’s signature strike.”

“You mean Alexia De Luca, and you’re right. Your style is more like a widow spider. Ripping a man’s head off after fucking him.”

She turns to me with a smirk. “You’re thinking praying mantis. Widow spiders simply kill their lover after sex. No theatrics. Just lethal efficiency.”

“I stand corrected.” I slide my hand up and down her bare back, voice dropping. “Point is, you were jealous.”

She scoffs. “I am not the jealous one in this relationship. That title belongs to you.”

I don’t need to argue. My silence is its own quiet denial.

She leans in. “So, if I were to walk up to an attractive man right now, and flirt, you wouldn’t react?” I don’t reply. “Care to wager on it?”

I raise an eyebrow. “As in a bet?”

“Yup.” She drains the rest of her wine. “If I go and flirt with a random stranger, you’ll blow your lid.” I don’t bite. “If I get him to walk away with me, you’ll be murderous,” she says with a sultry voice.

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