Page 5 of Forbidden Sins

I don’t answer my own question. I know exactly what I was thinking about, and it can’t happen again.

My job is to protect her. I’ve done it flawlessly for three years, and I have every intention of doing it for years to come—not just because it’s a good and steady job, but because I care deeply for Estella.

The thought of another man being responsible for protecting her sends a jolt of possessive anger through me, a feeling that’s not so much a want but a need .

And what about when she’s married? A knot tightens in my stomach at the thought. What if her husband doesn’t want her keeping a bodyguard that she’s so close with?

I swallow hard, turning off the shower more roughly than necessary.

As long as I do my job and don’t overstep, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t continue to fill the position even once Estella is married and living on her own.

She’ll still need protection, and that day might be a long time coming.

Luis is the heir. His responsibilities to marry and carry on the name are much more pressing than Estella’s.

Antony coddles her somewhat, it’s entirely possible that he might let her delay finding a husband for as long as she likes.

And today, what matters more than any of that is that I go back downstairs without giving Estella the slightest inclination of what I’ve been thinking about. That I focus on making sure I keep an eye out for her tonight at her party, and ensure that security is what it should be.

I should be meeting with her father and Brick right now about the plans for security tonight, not imagining his daughter on her knees with my cock stuffed in her mouth.

Guilt floods me again, and I towel off roughly, changing into my usual uniform for the day.

For summer, I opt for black chinos and a fitted black T-shirt, as well as comfortable motorcycle boots.

I keep a gun holstered at my side, and while at first Estella was put off by the fact that I’m constantly armed around her, she’s gotten used to it over the years.

Now, I don’t think she gives it a second thought.

I head down to her father’s office. There’s no sign of Estella anywhere, and I imagine she’s staying away from the chaos of the party preparations. She prefers quiet, I know that, and I can imagine that the hectic atmosphere of the house today is getting to her.

“Come in,” Antony calls out when I knock on his office door. “Ah, Sebastian.” He sets down the file he was looking at, glancing at me from across his desk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

I pause a foot from the leather-backed chairs in front of his desk, hands clasped behind my back.

“I wanted to check in on the security plans for tonight’s party, sir.

I assume that most of your associates and the higher-ranking members of the families will be there.

That’s an opportune moment for someone to strike, if there was anyone with intentions of harming the criminal hierarchy of New York, sir. ”

“Indeed.” Antony eyes me calmly. “Bruce has already talked with me about this. You can check with him if you like. Security will be doubled tonight for the party, and I expect the Yashkov and Gallagher families will have their own security with them, as well. I expect you will focus on Estella, as always?”

I nod sharply. “Of course, sir.”

“Good.” He glances back down at his file, clearly uninterested in further conversation. “You can check with Bruce, then. He’ll fill you in on any of the finer details.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stride out of the office, going in search of Brick.

I find him in the front courtyard with several of the other members of the security team, likely going over protocols for the evening.

It’s a warm summer day, building to hot, and I feel the back of my neck prickle with sweat as I wait for Brick to finish.

I go over the plans for security with him—as Antony said, the general security for the estate will be doubled, as well as any security that might come along with the Yashkov and Gallagher families.

As Brick fills me in, I can’t help but think wryly of what Estella said earlier—that the party isn’t so much for her as a way for Antony to throw a gala for everyone who might be important to his empire.

This is a mafia networking event, not a birthday party for his daughter, and it irritates me in a way that I know it shouldn’t.

None of this should matter to me. So long as I do my job and ensure Estella is protected, that’s all that should matter.

When I finish debriefing with Brick, I head back inside the mansion to find her.

A quick knock on her bedroom door tells me that she’s not in there, and I don’t find her in the library or the entertainment suite, either.

Eventually, I track her down to the sunroom, and I pause in the doorway as I catch sight of her, my chest squeezing with an emotion that I know I would do well to bury as deeply as possible.

She looks like a vision, like something out of a fairytale or a painting.

She’s wearing a light white eyelet sundress, with fluttery sleeves and a cinched bodice that pushes her full breasts up in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

I tear my eyes away from them instantly, but there’s nowhere else to look that makes it any better.

The skirt clings to her narrow waist, spills over her full hips, and if I look at her face—her face is just as beautiful as the rest of her.

A long, delicate throat, a sharp, pointed chin, high cheekbones, and a full mouth.

Wide, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes.

Those eyes are fixed on the easel in front of her; she’s working on an oil painting, facing the window that overlooks the gardens.

Sunlight is streaming through the huge windows that make up the entire front wall of the sunroom, illuminating Estella, glinting off the dark hair that she has piled up atop her head in a messy bun.

She hasn’t even heard me walk in. She’s too focused on the painting in front of her, her eyes flicking up every now and then to take in the landscape just outside the windows.

She’s so utterly beautiful that it almost hurts to look at her. Desire burns through my veins, and I breathe in deeply, trying to master it. To remind myself that wanting her would only result in losing her entirely.

“That’s beautiful,” I say quietly as I walk toward her, my footsteps firm enough to let her know that I’m approaching and not startle her. “Is it a new painting?”

Estella glances up at me as if she’s just now realizing I’m there, pulled out of whatever world she was in temporarily.

“I’ve been working on it for a few weeks.

” She glances at the wall to her right, where several of her other paintings are hanging, gallery-style.

This sunroom is mostly Estella’s domain—no one else really ever uses it.

Certainly not her father, who spends most of his time in his office or private study.

“Is it of the gardens?” I step closer, looking at the painting.

I don’t know much about the finer points of art, but I don’t have to in order to know that Estella is incredibly talented.

The textures of the painting are beautifully varied, from the rough layers of paint built up to show grasses and the thick lines of shrubbery and various flower textures, to the smooth, shaded expanse of the sky.

“This is part of them.” Estella nods. “See? There are the climbing roses.” She points at a spot on the left side of the painting, and then gestures out to the corresponding spot in the garden, where climbing roses in red, white, and yellow cover a latticework surrounding an iron bench.

“And who are they?” I motion to the shadowed figures of two people near the fountain, their shapes suggesting that it’s a man and a woman. “Anyone in particular?”

Estella shrugs, but her gaze flicks nervously away from mine. “Just people,” she says, picking up her brush dismissively.

I study her for a moment, noticing how she isn’t meeting my eyes—her attention returning once more to the painting.

There’s a flush on her throat, and I can feel the nervousness suddenly radiating off of her.

I might need to keep my distance from her both emotionally and physically, will never actually touch her, but after three years, I’m as attuned to her as a lover.

I glance at the two figures in the painting again. I picture the woman as her and the man as myself… but of course, that couldn’t be true. Estella wouldn’t paint her bodyguard into a piece of art with her, surely. Except…

Her sudden caginess, the flush on her neck, the way she won’t look at me—something tells me that I’ve come very close to unearthing some secret of hers, something that she doesn’t want to tell even me.

Something that maybe she doesn’t want to admit even to herself.

I cross the room, going to look at the other paintings.

There’s one of the pastures with the estate’s horses, depicting them running across a field.

Another is of the woods at the edge of the estate at sunset, yet another of the mansion itself.

And in every painting, there are those same two figures—a shadowy man and woman, without defining features or anything but the way they stand close together to indicate anything about them.

I glance back at Estella, who is focused entirely on her painting again, her eyes narrowed in concentration, the blush on her skin gone.

What would it mean if it were us in those paintings?

I wonder, and the answer comes to me easily, with a swoop of disappointment that I know is in my best interest to ignore.

It would mean nothing. Nothing at all.