Page 49 of Sinful Desires
Human-shaped targets lined the back wall in red. Guns were laid out on long wooden tables: pistols, rifles, magazines, all with the safety off. The air tasted of gun oil, metal, and ghosted adrenaline.
There was a couch setup in one corner. Black leather. A TV. A bottle of whiskey half empty beside a crystal ashtray and a pack of cigars that looked expensive enough to start wars over.
“So,thisis your little man cave?”
After that lovely little conversation where I’d nearly thrown myself at him, I’d stormed off, thrown myself into the shower, and tried to rinse off the leftover shame. I wasn’t even dressed when he knocked.
“Get dressed. I’ve got something to show you.”
I thought he’d meant paparazzi, or a stalker. Maybe both. That was usually what he flagged, people digging into my life for a paycheck or a thrill.
So, I didn’t ask or argue. I braided my damp hair, threw on a black oversized cardigan, yoga pants, and sneakers, and followed him to my Range Rover. The ride had taken ten minutes, and not a word had been spoken between us.
He shrugged off his jacket, the black shirt beneath clinging to muscle. A thin gold chain disappeared beneath the collar, just enough to catch the light. With black cargo pants and black boots, he looked every inch the weapon he claimed to be.
I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing my eyes up.
“I’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”
I stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
He didn’t bother repeating himself. Just grabbed a handgun, checked the chamber with that brutal, silent precision, and set it down on the table like he was offering me a rose.
“Why?” I asked, folding my arms. “So I can finally put a bullet through your skull and get some fucking peace?”
Moving with a calm that bordered on surgical, he adjusted the targets, pulled on gloves, and reset the range. It was clinical. Controlled. Almost deliciously intimate.
“I don’t need to know how to shoot,” I said. “I haveyou. Tall, broody, armed. Human murder-daddy. You kill things and grunt. That’s the deal.”
His eyes slid to me, sharp enough to cut skin. “You need to learn how to protect yourself from the kind of bastard who thinks hitting you makes him a man.”
My throat tightened.
Love’s not supposed to bruise, Miss Harper.
He wanted me to learn how to protect myself from my father.
He closed the space between us, silent and slow, before reaching for a larger gun. He slid it across the table next to thefirst. “You don’t get to die yet, Scarlett. Not until you learn how to survive.”
My pulse spiked as anger flared in my chest. “Surviving is all I’ve ever done. Maybe peace only comes sealed in a box six feet down.”
His voice dropped. “I’ll be rotting in that grave before I let them bury you.”
I let out a low, bitter laugh. “Then maybe we should rot together. Oh, right. You still want tolive. Guess you picked the wrong client, buddy.”
His eyes darkened when they fell on my trembling hands. “You’re not surviving. You’re drowning. And the sick part? You’re the one holding your head under.”
The words sliced deep. My arms prickled. My throat tightened.
“You dress it up. You smile for them. But you’ve forgotten who the fuck you are underneath all that noise.”
A shiver rolled down my arms.How the fuck did he see through it all?
I’d spent years faking Scarlett Harper, until some days, I wasn’t sure if the mask had eaten the girl underneath. Until I couldn’t tell which one of us wanted to die more.
“Be you, Scarlett. Not the ghost they paint and sell.”
My jaw clenched. I tried to swallow, tried to pretend his words didn’t carve something open. But they did. They always did.
