Page 33 of Beautiful Sinners

He knows I’m talking about what happened with his mother.

The corner of his eye twitches. I haven’t seen that ‘tell’ in a long time.

He blows out a breath. “Relieved.”

Eva Knight was a cunt for the perverted things she forced on her son. Hen hasn’t ever told me or Con the full extent of what happened when he was thirteen, but it fucked him up mentally and is why he’s never been able to have a normal relationship with a woman. I picture all the bite marks on Aoife’s body. We’ll need to come up with a safe word or something for her to use when she’s with him. I know he doesn’t want to hurt her, but I also know that when his beast comes out to play, it’s hard for him to stop.

“I don’t care what else is going on or how messed up things are right now, but Con and I are here for you. Whatever you need. Brothers to the end.”

“Brothers to the end,” he repeats.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” a soft feminine voice says.

Hen and I look up at the woman who offered us drinks as soon as we stepped onto the plane. Blonde hair secured in a sleek ponytail, ruby-red lips, kohl-lined brown eyes, and an hourglass shape accentuated by the tight-fitting skirt suit she’s wearing. She’s the type of woman we would’ve happily taken to a hotel for a night of debauchery.

Her cheeks blush when she asks, “You’re Hendrix Knight?”

Hen tends to attract a lot of attention wherever we go. It’s amazing how many people recognize him just from his Instagram. I used to give him a lot of shit over it. Con and I have stayed away from social media as much as possible, whereas Hendrix thrives on it like the attention whore he is. He’s tall, blond, blue-eyed, and loves to play up his posh British accent. Attributes that make women instantly fall to their knees, eager to suck his dick. He treats them like shit, using them for his own needs, but they keep coming back, begging for more—like Serena.

“I am.”

Hen doesn’t eye-fuck her with a lascivious rake of his gaze like he normally would when a pretty woman approaches him. His eyes don’t wander from her face. Hers do. She looks him over appreciatively and teethes her bottom lip, smiling demurely.

“I’m Melissa.”

“Don’t care,” he replies, and her smile drops a little.

“I, um…” She looks over at me, then back at him. “I follow you on Insta. I’m a huge fan.”

Bingo.

Hendrix sends her a blank look.

I take the small bag of yogurt-dipped pretzels sitting on the attached tray table beside me, rip into it, and pop one into my mouth.

“Can I get you anything?” She breathes out “anything” seductively, making her silent offer of something more than food or beverage clear as day.

“I’m good,” Hendrix tells her.

Melissa doesn’t take the hint. “I’m free for the next hour if you want to talk… or do other things.”

She makes the mistake of touching him by teasingly tip-toeing her fingers across his shoulder and down his arm. Before Hen can shrug it off, Melissa’s hand is yanked away by a fuming Aoife.

“You touch him again, and I will break your fucking hand.”

Melissa’s face contorts with pain as Aoife bends her wrist at an unnatural angle, and then her eyes go wide with fear as Aoife increases the pressure.

“I won’t. I’m sorry. You’re hurting me,” she pleads on a sob.

“Syn, let her go,” Evan says from where he’s sitting.

No one in the cabin seems too eager to jump in and pull Melissa away from Aoife. Con could easily do it since he’s standing right behind her.

Almost a minute goes by before Aoife finally releases her. Cradling her arm to her chest, tears track down Melissa’s face, running her mascara. She hurriedly bolts toward the front of the plane with her head tucked down.

The biggest smile spreads across Hendrix’s face. “You jealous, firefly?”

The look Aoife aims at him would wither a lesser man’s balls into raisins.

---