Page 68 of Forbidden Sins

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as handsome as he was.

His dark hair looked silky smooth all slicked back, the way his jawline cut sharp along his face was something I’ve never seen before.

He had a slight accent, Italian maybe? His eyes constantly moved around the room as though he were looking for something or someone.

When he grabbed my arms I thought I felt a current of electricity flow from his fingers to my sore body.

The bruises are still too fresh to be sure that’s what I felt, though.

I shake the gorgeous man from my thoughts as I continue walking toward my car.

I’m praying that my husband isn’t home, the day was too exhausting to deal with him again tonight.

The worst part is not knowing what will set Jeff off—most of the time, I don’t do or say anything and yet he still puts his hands on me.

If I’d known this is what he’d turn into when I said yes, I would’ve ran in the opposite direction.

Almost to the car, the nice breeze blows through my limp ponytail, as I continue to dig in my lunch box for my keys since they weren’t in my purse.

Next thing I know, I run right into a stone wall, hands grasping at my bruised shoulders, once again.

This time it causes me to cry out, cuffing my hand over my mouth trying to keep the sob from creeping out as well.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you, passerotto . Are you alright?

” his deep accented voice apologizes. He looks at me as though he wants to ask why I cried out.

I tried not to flinch again, but it’s too painful not to.

When I look up, I see it’s the beautiful man who’s been consuming my mind since I spoke to him.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.

“I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.

It’s my fault, so I’m the one that’s sorry.

” My gaze falters, but I can’t stop myself from glancing up at him again—briefly, and against my better judgment.

The weight of his presence makes my chest tighten, and I look away just as quickly, praying he can’t see how much he unsettles me.

“No need to apologize, passerotto . Thank you for doing what you did for Elio.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He remembered my name—a detail that sends a faint shiver down my spine.

“You’re welcome.” I glance away, nerves tightening in my chest. “I have to go,” I add quickly, turning and heading toward my car.

Each step feels rushed, the thought of Jeff’s reaction to my being late pressing heavily on my mind.

I find my keys in my scrub pocket just as I’m getting to the car, guess I’ll be sweating on the drive home. I don’t have time to wait for it to cool down, I’ve been stalled long enough. I’m sure Jeff is waiting for me and ready to teach me a lesson about timeliness.

“Charlie,” the man yells and I jerk my head around, startled. When I turn to face him, wordlessly, he smiles, “I’m Lucian. Thank you again, passerotto. Have a good night.”

Speechless, I turn and unlock the door to my car.

Once I’m in the seat with the air conditioner blasting the hot air in my face, slowly turning to cool air, butterflies erupt in my stomach.

I glance at the clock, and my stomach drops.

I’m late. Jeff will know—he always knows—and the thought of his reaction sends a chill down my spine.

But as I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, something stops me.

My cheeks are flushed. I can’t remember the last time I felt this…

alive. And all because of a stranger—a stranger who somehow stirred something in me I thought was long gone.

I put the car in drive and the closer I get to our house, the more the pit in my stomach grows.

The smile I had around Lucian fades, replaced by the neutral mask I’ve perfected since my wedding night.

Taking deep breaths, I steel myself, slipping the mask firmly into place.

By the time I’m pulling into the driveway, I’m mentally bracing for whatever waits for me on the other side of that front door.

Quietly I open the front door and step in, listening for anything that lets me know if Jeff is home or not. All I want to do is eat something, shower, and go to bed. I don’t hear any movement or noises, maybe I’m safe for now.

I walk into the kitchen and look through the bare cabinets and walk in the pantry, all I find is some crackers.

Those will have to do because I’m not allowed to eat until Jeff is finished eating dinner, and these crackers will hold me over until I’m able to eat actual food.

That is, if I can scrounge up something to make.

My eyes go to the dining room table filled with burn marks and bills.

The red past due stamps on every one of them taunts me as I walk passed toward the bathroom.

Since I’m not allowed to have any money, Jeff is responsible for paying the bills.

Seeing as how most of them are past due and more than likely will be disconnected sometime soon, he doesn’t pay them.

I couldn’t say how many times the landlord has come here looking for rent money because Jeff thinks meth is more important than a roof over our heads with water and electricity in the house. Even food.

He barely eats anymore and looks nothing like the man I fell in love with.

His dark hair looks more gray than brown, his pale skin, and sunken face makes me ill thinking about it.

His teeth are rotted from the time he smoked it for so long, falling out randomly, which he thinks is hilarious.

I don’t even remember the last time he showered or brushed what teeth he had left.

He’s disgusting. At this point, I can honestly say I hate the man.

But a part of me hurts for him because a tiny piece of me still loves him.

Everytime he shoots up, I pray that is the one that kills him, and I hate myself for thinking that way.

But the universe apparently likes me being abused physically, mentally, and sexually, because it hasn’t happened yet.

As I’m washing my hair with the cheap strawberry scented shampoo, I close my eyes and think of the man with the hazel eyes.

Lucian. I recall his deep, accented voice and a shiver runs down my spine.

He looked every bit as dangerous as I first thought, but there was something about the way his eyes met mine—a flicker of something protective, almost tender, hidden beneath the storm.

The intense anger I’d seen in the hospital wasn’t there when we crossed paths outside.

In its place was something quieter, softer—something that left me breathless and unsettled all at once.

The water begins to cool, making my eyes jerk open.

“Shit.” I lost track of time and stayed in the shower too long.

I rush to dry myself off, putting on some baggy clothes that don’t press on the bruises covering my body.

I forgo drying my hair, which will get me punished if Jeff is home.

He hates wet hair. I have no clue why, but if my hair isn’t dried, I’m punished for being a nasty bitch, according to him.

I rush into the kitchen and go straight to the pantry, remembering the pasta and sauce I saw earlier.

My hands are trembling as I grab them, but just as I turn to head for the stove, I freeze.

Jeff is sitting at the table, spoon in one hand, a lighter in the other.

His dead eyes lock on me, sunken and dark giving him an almost demonic look.

“Why isn’t dinner ready?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the heavy silence.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “It was a long shift. I needed to shower. I’ll hurry and make it now.” I turn toward the stove, willing my hands to stop shaking. But before I can take another step, I hear the screech of the chair on the floor, and then his heavy footsteps.

Suddenly, his hand tangles in my hair, yanking me back.

Pain shoots through my scalp as he growls in my ear.

“What did I tell you about not having dinner ready when you get off? You know the rules. You’re lucky I just hit my fix.

You’re not ruining my high.” He shoves me forward, and I stumble, barely catching myself on the counter.

“I’m sorry, Jeff,” I manage to choke out, my voice a broken whisper. “I’ll make it now.”

I cook the rest of dinner in silence, just as I look towards Jeff, he’s releasing the band around his arm, again. I wait for a few minutes before serving him, if I interrupt his “incline” I won’t be able to eat until I go to work tomorrow.

When he goes from slouched to sitting back up in the chair, putting his paraphernalia back in his little black box, I put some noodles and sauce on a plate and carry it to him.

“Would you like some water, Jeff?” I ask quietly, eyes down, as I set the plate in front of him, placing the silverware next to the plate.

“Get out of my fucking face and let me eat in peace,” he snarls, though his words are sluggish and slurred, the hatred in the tone he uses has me stepping back.

I go to my place on the wall, standing in silence, while he eats. I know what’s going to happen before it does. His appetite is diminished from the syringe full of meth he injected into his arms. I’m surprised he hasn’t blown all the veins yet with as many times as he shoots up.

He forks some of the food, lifting it to his mouth. Once the smell hits his nose, he drops the fork, picks up the plate, and throws it at me. I flinch, the plate coming inches from my face. Red sauce paints the wall, the noodles sliding down creating a masterpiece of its own.

“You poisoned it didn’t you? You trying to kill me? Answer me, bitch,” Jeff yells, as I stand as still as possible. He doesn’t want me to answer, if I open my mouth he’ll say I was trying to be smart with him or I’m back-talking. I shake my head no, hoping that will suffice.

It doesn’t. He leaps from his chair and grabs my hair, slamming my face on the table. My hands automatically try to cover my face, but the force is still too much, I feel the blood gush from my nose.

“Please, Jeff. I have to work tomorrow. I won’t be able to cover this with makeup,” I cry out as he punches me in the ribs.

“You think I’m going to let you get away with trying to poison me?

I told you, Charlie, you’ll never get rid of me.

I’m never letting you go. One of these days, you’ll fucking learn to listen and stop trying to go against me,” he screams in my face.

His breath is so foul, from all the infection in his mouth I gag, which gets me a slap across the face.

I should be thankful it wasn’t his fist.

When he releases my hair, I crumble to the ground, barely able to breathe.

Fuck, I hope he didn’t crack a rib again, please just be bruised.

I stay on the floor in the fetal position, crying silently, waiting for him to leave.

I know he’ll leave for the night, he does every time he shoots up and then beats me afterward.

I’m grateful for the peace when he’s gone, it gives me a chance to check myself over.

I’ll also have to call into work tomorrow, which I don’t want to do.

But I can’t go in looking like this, it’d just cause more questions and I’m running out of lies to tell.

“Get this shithole cleaned up before I get home, you lazy whore. Next time you try to take me out, I’m letting all my friends have a turn with you. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you, slut?” He kicks me in the back before stumbling out the door.

I stay in the fetal position in my place on the filthy stained brown carpet for ten minutes before I get up. I clean the mess he made up and clean the house in case he comes back. Only after will I clean myself up and examine all the places he’s injured tonight.

As I limp to the bathroom, I call the hospital, letting them know I won’t be available for the rest of the week for a family emergency. They take me off the schedule until the middle of next week and tell me they hope everything is okay.

I strip my clothes off and stand in front of the bathroom mirror, the crack on the left side was my fault. My head ran into it when I was jerked from the shower for cleaning off the scent of another man. The one I’m cheating on my husband with. Meth is making him lose his mind.

Eventually, when I free myself from him, I know I won’t want another man to touch me. Ever. But in this moment, those piercing hazel eyes consume my thoughts. Lucian. No. I shake my head sharply, forcing the image away. Not even him.