Page 21 of Sinner's Salvation

Relief has me forgetting everything else. “Wow, that’s better than I expected.”

“There’s one more thing, Violet. They insist on meeting you.”

“You know I won’t.”

“That may be a deal breaker. Think about it.”

Frustration replaces my momentary excitement. I am real. He talks to me, no? A bot couldn’t have done what I did, and my teammates also know I exist. They can see me breathing and talking when we play. From the start, Scott and I agreed that the mystery would be to my advantage. Why, after all these years, should we change that?

I inhale and exhale a few times to ease my frayed nerves. Nodding in the mirror, I add a touch of violet lipstick—my favorite color and the boost of confidence I desperately need.

The moment I reach the staircase, heads turn in the foyer. Gasps come from the small crowd standing near the front door. I have difficulty understanding their reaction, though my best guess is surprise. According to my father, he only invited his closest friends and, of course, him.

I swallow the lump in my throat and descend the stairs while unease creeps up my body, disconcerting me. I trip on the last stair and grip the railing to avoid face-planting. My father rushes to me, and I freeze at his proximity. If he touches me, I might lose it. Understanding, he nods to assure me. “I’m so proud of you, Violet.”

His eyes turn glassy, a torrent of emotions glistening in them. I shift my gaze, my brain acutely aware that even if this is a big step for me, pride should be for so many things other than facing people.

My father doesn’t leave my side and when his best friend and the former governor, Victor Harris, comes to greet me with his wife Caroline by his side, my discomfort becomes unbearable.

But my worry vanishes quickly; the two of them say their hellos without touching me and move on to the living room. They know, of course. I get the impression that everyone here knows about the governor’s strange daughter, probably because my parents have warned them.

My little sister runs toward me. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that children are the most unpredictable. Serena stops in front of me and every muscle in my body relaxes.

“You look pretty.”

I bend toward her and say, “You look prettier.”

She grins and looks at everyone gathered around us. My heart squeezes at her excitement surrounding her in clouds of cotton candy.

My mother whispers to me, “My brave daughter.”

More like a coward, forced into this position and given no option to escape.

I look at the people gathering, some of whom I peeked at from upstairs, in the shadows, over the years. In the corner, three men and two women watch me while speaking in hushed tones. The men are wearing impeccable suits, a dangerous aura clinging to them. The women smile. The blond with kind blue eyes wears a satin gray fitted dress with a small train. The brunette is wearing a red dress with a deep slit that runs up the side of her left leg. Their beauty and elegance unnerve me.

The men cock their heads, studying me with thinly veiled curiosity. The man with cold silver eyes cracks his neck and whispers something to the other, who has such hard edges on his face that they could cut glass. They end up smirking and the brunette elbows the one next to her.

The doors to the terrace open and a woman in a yellow flowing gown steps inside, her brown hair pulled up in a ponytail.

Behind her is him. Cameron McNamara. I’ve heard of and seen pictures of him, yet his presence sucks all the air from my lungs. His eyes fix on me—golden hues and greens battling for dominance. I can’t escape that magnetic pull. He scans me from head to toe. Gripping his glass, his nostrils flare as if what he sees is unpleasant.

On instinct, I brace myself as he approaches, never taking those intense, fiery, hazel eyes off me. I have never felt like this under anyone’s gaze; it’s as if he undresses me, leaves me on the floor, and stares at all my vulnerabilities. He emanates raw male energy from his custom-made suit hugging his torso to that face chiseled to perfection.

Petrified, I step back. “I can’t do this,” I murmur to my parents.

“Violet. Stay.” My father says my name in a tone that brooks no argument.

My mind is in complete havoc; my thoughts scramble, and I can’t see the complete picture from all the pieces.

Cameron saunters toward me with the elegance of a skilled predator. I’m shaking under my skin like a barren tree in winter’s full harshness.

He stretches out his hand to me. I trace a vein on his palm with my eyes, my finger itching to touch it. Snapping from the sudden urge, I peruse his face. He’s classically handsome and carries himself with poise and elegance. Yet, there’s more to his features: a sharpness in every cut of his sculpted face, firm jaw, perfectly arched eyebrows, and those fiery eyes—a cold portrait of beauty.

“Oh, I forgot you’re a germaphobe, aren’t you?” He pins my father with a glare—unobstructed fury blazing from his eyes—while my father bites back a retort.

I blink at him. The derision slipping from that perfect mouth doesn’t sit well with me, so I react by extending my gloved hand. At that, his brow arches, but he gives it a light squeeze that sends a shock through my body.

“I guess we’re both in a position we don’t want to be in,” I say with feigned confidence.

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