Page 32 of Carnal Games

What kind of parents treats their kid’s belongings like this? Who knows for how many years they’ve left it barren?

My temper converts into sadness when I trek into the walk-in closet, seeing his clothes hanging in the columns. One side is organized while the other is an utter mess.

The carpet on the floor masks the noise of my heels as I enter.

Approaching the stack of folded T-shirts, I grab one from the middle and bring it to my nose. My eyelids fall closed as I’m hit with a strong scent of spice and dark chocolate. A perfect combination of my two favorite flavors.

I’m so tempted to steal one of his shirts.

Take it.

“No.”

No one will know, Iris.

“Stop it.” Except one look at the shelves and seeing my scary reaper’s neglected possessions, even if they’re just clothes, breaks my spirits.

I’ve grown up with people who love and respect their close ones and their belongings.

Mydaduhas kept mydadi’sfavorite shawl to this day after she passed away fifteen years ago. It’s not the only thing he’s saved of hers.

Kian is alive, yet his family treats him worse than an enemy. Like his things mean nothing to them. Not even the respect to at least store it all away. Hell, give them to a charity.

Instead, they’re downstairs partying and celebrating their wedding anniversary.

How can they laugh and go on with their lives?

The impression I got from his father, I can expect this behavior. But his mother—it shocks me.

The only person affected by his absence is Nathan. There was pain in his voice as he talked about Kian. The small glimpse I saw of Kian when he was alone tells me he misses his little brother too.

Like I haven’t crossed enough boundaries and probably broke a law, I seize two of the folded shirts and shove them into my purse. It’s thankfully deep enough to contain them.

Excitement swirls in my belly at the thought of sleeping in it tonight.

I move to the line of formal dress shirts, stroking the cuffs as I flick through them. I’m pulling my hand back when my bracelet catches on a button, jostling the shirts.

Something hard falls from above and knocks me over the head.

“Oww,” I yelp, staggering back in alarm.

I look at the floor for the culprit while massaging the stinging spot. It’s a small diary with a brown leather case. No wonder it hurt like a bitch.

Bending, I grab it and study it.

Kian keeps a diary?

My first instinct is to flip it open and read. I almost do but then I pause at the last second. It’s one thing to steal his shirt, but entirely something else to invade his privacy by reading his personal diary. While I don’t keep one myself, I do know it’s anintimate ritual for some. A window into their soul that they want to keep private.

I admit I have this intense need to know more about this man.

But not like this.

I’m about to put it back when a thought creeps up. The diary fell from the shiny rod of the closet. A very weird place to keep it. I glance at the diary again.

Is it even Kian’s?

Fuck. There’s only one way to confirm.