Page 57 of Sinful Desires
“My star in the darkness.”
I didn’t know why, but it felt familiar. Like something I’d heard once, somewhere I couldn’t reach.
LeRoy pushed the door shut behind him and vanished into the darkened private suite, leaving me with the hum of the engines and the question I hadn’t dared ask out loud:Who had he gotten that tattoo for?
And I hated that some twisted part of myself wanted it to be me.
Chapter
Seventeen
“We hunger in earnest for that which we cannot consume.”
? Nenia Campbell
Théo
“Thought you were staying at the Lazzios,” I said, eyeing the estate like it had personally slapped me.
No gate logs. No security brief. No floor plans.
I’d spent twelve fucking hours auditing every inch of Francesco Lazzio’s mansion, mapping blind spots, exit routes, panic rooms. Every possible threat, every crack in the perimeter. Useless now.
This place? I didn’t even have a blueprint. Just columns, iron balconies, and a façade big enough to house a royal family with room to spare for their sins.
“Change of plans. My parents want to stay at ours.”
A butler opened her door like it was sacred, and she stepped out with that tilt of her chin that said the world owed her more than it gave. Staff moved around her like wind-up toys, unpacking bags, smoothing creases that didn’t exist.
All of them scrambling, and all she did was blink.
Bees, circling their queen.
I’d spent the entire flight with my headphones jammed in, eyes glued to my laptop, doing everything I could to pretend she didn’t exist two feet away.
Pretending not to feel her legs brushing mine, like her perfume hadn’t crawled under my skin and lived there. Pretending I hadn’t heard the soft hums under her breath, or felt the heat bleeding off her skin every time she crossed her legs.
But I had. Every fucking second.
Then she’d asked what my tattoo meant, like she hadn’t been the one to carve those exact words into my soul.
For one second, I thought she remembered. The look in her eyes. The way she said it. I was stupid enough to think the ghost of that night had clawed its way back up her throat.
But no. She didn’t remember. Didn’t ask where it came from, or why my hand had tightened on the doorknob when she said it.
Only you, Théo LeRoy, could be pathetic enough to dream for three years about a girl who didn’t even remember your face.
I followed her up the stairs into the foyer, past the marble columns and a chandelier so obscene it looked like it cost more than most people’s lives. Light fractured in a thousand directions. Butlers in crisp white suits lined the hall, holding champagne like we were stepping into Versailles.
Scarlett reached for a glass, gulped it in one go, and reached for a second. The butlers took it as their cue and vanished down the hall, leaving us alone in the foyer.
Before it hit her lips, I grabbed her wrist. She froze.
“Pick your poison. Brat ordrunk. You don’t get to be both when I’m the one gripping the leash.”
She looked down at my hand and watched my fingers press into her skin. Her eyes didn’t blink. She watched it, watchedme, like she could feel the exact pressure of each fingertip.
I followed her gaze. Her skin flushed beneath mine, her pulse fast and uneven. Her chest rose in that slow, trembling way that gave her away, but she didn’t pull back. Didn’t speak. She stayed right there, heat building between us like she needed it.
