Page 66 of Sinful Desires
Above her, the ceiling glowed with those small plastic stars. Thousands of them.
Like some little girl had climbed onto the bed night after night, sticking each one up like she thought maybe, just maybe, she’d reach heaven faster that way.
The green glow painted her in quiet magic. It made her look younger.
My eyes caught on something beside the vanity. A frame—small, silver, dusted. I crossed the room slowly and picked it up. It was a photo of her. Withblondehair.
She wore a wide smile, white jodhpurs, and riding boots, reins in her hand like she owned the damn world. Atop a tall grey horse, a medal hung from her neck. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from sun or pride, who knew. She was maybe ten. Still so stupidly happy it hurt to look at. Still untouched by life. By the kind of shit that ruined girls like her. She looked like light.
I’d only ever seen the fire.
She shifted. My name came from her lips. Barely a whisper. So faint I thought I’d imagined it.
But I hadn’t, because she said it again. Softer this time, like a secret. She shifted again, her head falling to the side, right into the silver spill of moonlight bleeding through the window.
My hand found her cheek. Her skin warmed under my palm, soft and real, grounding me in the worst way. She sighed in her sleep, barely a sound, and leaned in.
I pulled my hand back. My fists clenched at my sides, shaking and burning, the frame still locked in my other hand.
Mon étoile dans l’obscurité.
She’d called me that, and the words had lodged so deeply in my head I’d had to carve them into my skin.
She hadn’t known it that night, but she’d fucking saved me.
From myself.
That’s why I didn’t touch her, even when I was starving for it. Even when it was killing me not to.
Because if I did, I wouldn’t ever fucking stop.
Chapter
Twenty
“I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars.”
? Stephenie Meyer
Théo
33 years old
Three years ago
“Thank you for your services,MonsieurLeRoy.” His voice oozed faux warmth. “A shame you won’t leave the country with us, especially after our?…?considerableoffer. But I suppose even a man like you has his reasons.”
Christopher Dawson sat behind his desk, knuckles brushing the gold cigar box before flipping it open. Three fat Colombian cigars rested inside, lined up.
He offered me one with a tilt of his head. I refused.
From the other side of the heavy double doors, the party howled. The elite giving one of their own a standing ovation before the Dawsons disappeared into thenight.
He tapped his cigar against the edge of a crystal ashtray, watching me. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
He just stood slowly, like his body had gotten heavier with the weight of all his unspoken sins. He came around the desk and held out his hand.
