Page 61 of Sinful Hearts

It’s research. Not an homage.

Research. Yeah, that’s what it is. Reconnaissance on the man who was supposed to be my dirty little sinful secret, who now seems to be bulldozering his way into every facet of my life.

And my thoughts.

Not to mention my goddamn dreams—vividly and nightly, ever since he kissed me on the balcony the other night like a king staking his claim to his rightful territory. And the worst part is, even though I know I should be incensed that he just “decided” to kiss me like that—brutally, savagely, and completely unapologetically…

I’m not. In fact, the more times I replay it, the more turned on I get. The faster my pulse beats. The more erotically detailed my nightly, dreaming fantasies of him become.

I shiver as I return my focus to the screens in front of me. On them, there’s a whole litany of articles and online gossip about Hades pulled up. There was a piece in theFinancial Timesrecently on the launch of Thermopylae Acquisitions—with zero mention of theotherbusiness interests of the Drakos family. Which I’m betting means they’re either friends with the guy who wrote the piece, or they made him the proverbial offer he couldn’t refuse.

My eyes skim over it. A little ways past the part where it gushes about the “strategic financial wisdom” of Ares Drakos, I find the bit about Hades. The author, one Mark Duccet, goes on to paint Hades in an extraordinarily favorable light as the resilient middle brother, learning to flex his wings beyond his older brother’s shadow.

I roll my eyes at phrases like “confident and grounded”, or “the poised voice of reason and the steady hand at the helm that helps guide King Ares’ ship.”

Give me a fucking break.

I minimize the article before I vomit. Then, I’m suddenly blushing as images of Hades fill the screen—other windows I’ve had open behind theFinancial Timesarticle.

Images of Hades in an impeccably tailored suit, at a policeman’s fundraiser. Or jogging across the pitch of the football—sorry,soccer—club the Drakos family once owned, and presumably laundered money through, back in England.

And then, there are other pictures: candid, paparazzi shots of Hades, shirtless, lounging on the bow of a yacht somewhere. Hades poolside at a luxury resort—also shirtless. Hades crossing the finish line of the London Marathon.

Shirtless, again, because why the fuck not.

There are more. Pictures of Hades outside the premiere of some dumb B-list movie, arm-in-arm with the vapid-looking starlet-of-the-month whom he was apparently “seeing” at the time.

I scowl, closingthatparticular window immediately.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair as my eyes scan the no less thantenpictures of Hades up on my screens.

Yeah, research. Sure.

Keep telling yourself that, stalker.

It’s not that I’m losing myself and getting all tangled up in the man that I slept with and keep fantasizing about now.

It’snot.

That said, I’m in the middle of googling “Hades Drakos beach swimsuit” when there’s a knock at my door, and it swings open before I can even respond. Lunging forward while just about having a heart attack, I slam my screens off before raising my eyes past them to the doorway.

Instantly, my face hollows, my skin turns clammy, and my stomach knots with dread at the sneering, leering man standing in my office doorway.

“Knock knock,” Pascha grins lecherously as he saunters in.

“I’m in the middle of—”

He shuts the door behind him with a resounding click before he turns back to me, a creepy smile on his pock-marked face.

“As I said, I’m in the middle of something,” I hiss evenly. “Leave.”

Pascha ignores me, turning to stroll casually across my office, meandering his way past shelves of legal texts toward the little couch area I’ve got set up in the corner.

“Your father would like an update.”

I stand, walking around to the front of my desk and leaning against it with my arms folded.

“You can tell Leo I’m working on it,” I mutter.

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