Page 43 of Sinful
Not a surprise—I felt her leave sometime around three AM.
The bed shifted, cool air rushed in where her body had been pressed against mine, and then the quiet sound of her gathering clothes in the dark.
I didn't stop her.
Didn't ask her to stay.
That's not what last night was about.
Except—
I stare at the ceiling of my temporary room at the Raiders of Valhalla compound, watching early morning light filter through the blackout curtains, and try to convince myself that's true.
That last night was just another hookup with another woman I'd never see again.
But my chest feels tight in a way it hasn'tin eighteen years.
Not since the fire.
Not since I learned that feeling anything—wanting anything—just means more to lose when it burns.
"Fuck," I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed.
The room's too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that lets memories creep in through the cracks.
Her hands in my hair.
The way she kissed like she was trying to forget something.
How her dead eyes came alive when I touched her, mirroring something in me that I thought died with my family.
I shake it off.
Shower. Dress. Check my weapons—Glock on my hip, backup on my ankle, knife in my boot.
The ritual is grounding. Familiar.
This is who I am. A Nomad. A negotiator. Someone who doesn't stay.
Someone who definitely doesn't get tangled up with women whose real names he doesn't even know.
Hell.
That's all she gave me.
A nickname, a fake identity, probably one of many.
Smart girl.
I should follow her lead.
Forget last night happened.
Focus on why I'm here.
The alliance. Los Coyotes. Keeping my club safe.
Not the way she felt under my hands. Not the sound she made when?—
