Page 47 of Sinful Desires
Officer Lefebvre once told me that work kept the monsters quiet. Idle hands fed them.
So, whenever those fucking panic attacks hit, I’d head straight for the shooting range in the submarine or in our quarters on land. It was the only way to fucking keep me steady.
But tonight, that was not what I needed. Because even with the storm ripping through my head, I kept slipping back to her.
Scarlett.
She was probably a few doors down, dripping wet, trembling, those pretty lips already cursing my name for tearing her little scheme apart.
With a low curse, I ripped my clothes off and cleaned myself quickly, not letting the shower last a second longer than necessary. My heart was stuck in my throat. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
I grabbed the nearest pants and hoodie I could find and then reached for my phone, checking to see if the water had fucked it up. But then I heard three low knocks at the door.
I inhaled deeply, walked over, and grabbed the handle. I opened the door just enough, keeping my body in the way.
She was trembling like a junkie in withdrawal, her eyes wide and glassy. Her hands were shaking. She was still in those wet clothes, red hair plastered to her face, lips tinted soft blue.
She smiled, but it never touched her eyes.
“What do you want?”
“I need your help, soldier.”
My brow lifted, eyes narrowing. “With what?”
She raised her hand, tapping her long, sharp red nail against the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Her eyes dragged over me, unhurried, tracing every bare inch before meeting mine again, heat simmering under her wet lashes.
“Because of you and Romaniev, I haven’t been able to?…?take the edge off,” she murmured, her nail dragging lazy, taunting circles along the doorframe. “To relax.”
I let out a dark, low laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to amuse either of us. I stepped forward through the doorway. She stepped back, but I kept closing in, as slow as a noose tightening. The door clicked shut behind me, and I pressed my back against it, arms crossed.
“Tragic,” I said flatly. “But the drugstore’s closed, sweetheart. House rules.”
She scoffed, her own arms crossing tightly beneath her chest.
“In case it slipped your thick skull, this is stillmyhouse.”
I let my gaze drag over her. “Maybe,” I said. “But you’re still undermywatch, Miss Harper. Which means I own every fucking breath you take under this roof. So, no drugs. No pills. No powders. No pathetic little highs.”
She had no fucking clue. I had faced one of my demons for her. Dragged myself back into that hell, my hands shaking, lungs burning, just to pull her out. And she thought I was angry because she was still breathing?
Putain.
I’d face every single thing I feared, line them up one by one, and walk through them again and again if it meant feeling her breath against my skin. I’d kill, steal, and bleed dry to keep the life in her, even if she used it only to spit venom at me.
My voice dropped. “You wanna play the victim?” I leaned in, close enough to feel her exhale catch between us. “Go ahead. March into that kitchen. Pick the sharpest knife you can find. I’ll watch. Hell, I’ll hold your fucking hair back while you do it.”
I didn’t look away. Neither did she.
Her fists curled. Her cheeks flushed deeply, blue eyes darkening into something stormy and wild.
Fuck, she was beautiful when she was angry.
She let out a dark, breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I actually came in here to ask for something?…?else. Something that had nothing to do with drugs. But you know what?” Her hand lifted in the air, flipping the conversation like a loaded gun. “Forget it. I’ll go find that knife after all.”
She stepped in close, too close, her long, cutting red nail pressing right against my chest. “But you,” she whispered, eyes locked on mine, “better start sleeping with both eyes open.”
Her smile was sweet. Vicious.
