Page 69 of Sinful
The sun is starting to rise by the time we reach the compound.
Pink and orange spreading across the Florida sky, too beautiful for the blood we're all covered in.
The truck pulls up to the clubhouse and the doc is already waiting—older man, seventies maybe, with steady hands and a calm face that says he's seen everything.
"Get him inside," he orders. "Carefully. I need to assess the damage."
They carry Ivar in on a stretcher.
Helle follows, still covered in blood, still not looking at anyone.
Still not looking at me.
I stand in the parking lot as members file past, some heading inside, others dispersing to clean weapons and gear.
Fenrir stops beside me. "You did good tonight."
"Just did what needed doing."
"You saved Ivar's life. Helle's life. That's more than 'what needed doing.'" He pauses. "What she said in there. About killing Andrés. You heard that?"
My jaw tightens. "Yeah."
"You going to report it? Tell your Prez? Tell anyone?"
I think about it. About what the right answer is. The professional answer.
"No," I say finally. "I didn't hear anything. Just a lot of screaming and gunfire."
Fenrir studies me, then nods slowly. "Good. Because that girl's been through enough. She doesn't need more blood on her hands, even if it's her own."
He walks away, leaving me alone in the parking lot.
The sun is fully up now. A new day. A fresh start.
But all I can think about is the taste of her kiss.
The way she looked at me before she climbed into that truck.
The words she screamed in that room:I killed him. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again.
I should be horrified.
Should be disgusted.
Should be running as far and fast as I can from a woman who's capable of cold-blooded murder.
Instead, I'm standing here wishing she'd look at me again.
Wishing she'd kiss me again.
Wishing I didn't have to be a Nomad who leaves.
Eighteen years I've been running from attachment.
Eighteen years of dead eyes and a dead heart.
And now?—
