Page 41 of Sinful Desires
My job. My control. My fucking mind.
I wanted to drag him across that marble floor and see if he still sounded so calm with a mouthful of blood.
Then I felt it. A hand. Small, trembling, clutching the front of my vest.
“Let’s go,” Scarlett murmured, barely above a whisper. “Please.”
And just like that, all that rage—violent, hungry, ready to spill—turned in on itself and carved a hole through my chest. It was the first time she’d ever said that word to me.
Notasshole, like she used to spit when she was pissed.
Not soldier, the name she threw around when she wanted to rile me up.
Butplease.
And fuck me, I knew right then that I’d let that word ruin me.
Becausepleasemeant she didn’t want anyone else. It meant she looked for me when the world turned to shit. And now I’d never hear it again without wanting to destroy whatever made her say it.
I didn’t speak, just followed her out with murder pressed between my teeth.
“It’s December, Miss Harper.”
I stepped out after her, the rooftop biting at my skin, wind carving through my jacket. “You planning to freeze to death?”
She ignored me and kept striding ahead. Her black dress fluttered around her thighs, way too thin for winter.
“Sane people spend nights like this indoors. Heat. Blankets. Maybe even a pulse.” My eyes trailed the goosebumps rising on her bare arms.
“Good thing I’m not sane, then.”
She reached the edge, fingers curling around the railing like she was steadying herself from the weight of whatever the hell was eating her alive. Moonlight turned her skin into porcelain.
The car ride back had been a fucking nightmare. The constant hum of the engine had buzzed in my ears, but it wasn’t the only noise. Victor had his head buried in some half-assedpodcast about the dangers of smoking, the irony of it hanging thick in the air.
The man chain-smoked like he was trying to set a record. If anything, that podcast was just a pathetic distraction.
But it wasn’t the radio that had my attention. It was her.
She was curled into herself, arms tight around her knees like she was scared she’d come apart if she let go.
And then, I heard it. A sob. A small, shakyfuckingsob.
Fucking Lucius Harper.
The next time I saw that bastard, I’d make sure he learned what it felt like to choke on your own teeth, to see your bones bend the wrong fucking way.
You don’t lay a hand on a woman, any woman, and walk away with your face still recognizable. Not on my watch. Not while I was still fucking breathing.
When we’d finally pulled up to her building, she’d bolted out of the car without a word, without a glance back. She hit the elevator button for the rooftop, and I had followed her up in silence.
“Don’t tell me you brought me up here to watch you swan dive off your penthouse view.”
She tilted her head, that red hair catching the wind. “Would you miss me if I did?”
“No. But scraping your body off the pavement might ruin my night.”
That got her.
