Page 20 of Born Sinner
The ones of him.
The ones of him touching me.
Marking me.
Seeing me.
He witnessed me at my most vulnerable—naked and at his mercy. He could have added his enemy’s innocence to his claims last night, but he didn’t.
Why?
And why the hell am I even questioning it?
I should be counting my blessings that last night only cost me a physical scar. It could have been much worse. He could have left me with plenty more that would never heal.
Digging into the pocket of my shorts, I pull out a crumpled yellow piece of paper, my heart leaping into my throat as I smooth it out on my bare thigh.
My mouse doesn't want to be caught. Unless that's what she desires most... Better luck next time, dulzura.
Dulzura.
Sweetness? What the hell is that? I’m sure it wasn’t meant as a term of endearment as much as a well-aimed dart. Just like all Santiagos, he managed to twist something innocent into something dark and perverted.
I should be furious. Instead, I want to twist back.
Which would be suicidal.
Sandwiching the Post-it Note between my palms, I press them against my lips almost as if in prayer. For what, I have no idea.
Forgiveness for my sins?
Strength not to commit more?
Wisdom to know the damn difference?
Sam Sanders…Just his name should be a cold slap of reality. If knowledge is power, then knowing who Sam Colton really is should drown this infatuation in a deep pool of vengeance.
So why don’t I hate him?
Why do I still have his note?
Two more questions I don’t have the answers to.
Unfolding my legs, I climb off my bed, wondering just how high this ledge is… The one I seem to have found myself cornered on with nowhere to run. No means of escape.
No way out but straight down.
Moving toward the window, I brush the curtain with the back of my hand. Unsurprisingly, my only view is a steel jaw and tense, folded arms. It’s dark, but then again, so is RJ. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bribes the sun just to exist in its light.
The streetlight casts a demonic glow across his expressionless face. He’s not in a pleasant mood, and with good reason. I had him chasing me all over New Brunswick today like we were two rats in a bullet-ridden maze.
Courtesy of one overprotective future cartel king.
“Well played, Santi,” I mutter.
My brother is nothing if not shrewd. My father has already punished one of my trusted bodyguards for my actions—RJ is his calculated replacement.
Slumping against the window frame, I let out a weary sigh. I never intentionally meant to cause Felipé harm. He was a good bodyguard. A goodsicario. A good man. But in cartel life, good and bad are simply varying shades of the same intent—loyalty.
