Page 130 of A Taste like Sin
knew to keep quiet about the club. Perhaps because he was a member all along. “He knew about my
scar.” And now his pointed mentioning of it makes sense. “He guessed…”
Relief visibly robs Damien’s body of tension. Only belatedly does he seem to remember his promise.
“Julio,” he murmurs into his headset. “Send up the police. Tell them—”
“No.” I don’t even know where the refusal comes from. It’s wrong, going against everything my father
taught me about justice. But if I’ve learned anything at all from recent events, it’s that sometimes
heroes are the worst kinds of monsters. And sometimes their victims are inherently selfish. Could my
father survive his ordeal and then outlast a murder trial with his decades-old secrets at the heart of it?
No. “I…I want him to disappear.”
“Are you sure?” His posture changes in the blink of an eye.
I’m too exhausted to nod or give some kind of nonverbal agreement. I have to say it. “Yes.”
He nods and prods his headset. “Julio. Tell the police Harrison has escaped the suite. Possibly
through a back stairwell. Ensure the cameras malfunction and then make the arrangements. You know
the ones.” He turns back to me, his head cocked, picking up my rapid breathing. “Did he hurt you?”
I can’t lie. I can’t seem to speak anymore, either. I stand, moisture rolling down my face, my body
swaying.
“Mierda.” He crosses to me, capturing me in his arms before I can fall. “Stay with me, sweet girl.”
He runs his fingers along my shoulder, inching toward my throat. When his thumb nudges my
throbbing windpipe, I wince. “The flesh is inflamed. You’re wheezing,” he deduces, drawing his hand
away. In response, his grip around me only tightens, drawing me into his chest. “If he did lasting
damage, I’ll resurrect the bastard just to kill him again—”
“Stop,” I rasp, too limp to physically fight him off. “Just…”
“I know, sweet girl,” he murmurs, bringing his mouth against the crook of my shoulder. “I’ve
frightened you. But I’m not leaving. Not now. Not until I know you’re safe.”
With him? A man who killed someone in front of me? A man who smells like sin and perfection
despite the persistent stench of Harrison’s cigar scent permeating the air? A man who tightens his grip
even further when my knees buckle and I’m in danger of falling once again?
“Easy.” He guides me back and eases me onto the couch. “This is a dream,” he tells me, his voice
taking on a polished calm. It’s colder. Harder. Broken. “I will handle everything. Just sleep, sweet
girl. Sleep.”
