Page 14 of Sin in My Inbox (Sexting Spark #1)

Dmitri

The engine's low growl cut through the night, sharp and clear.

One hand on the steering wheel, my fingers tapped the cool leather without thinking.

The city's neon glow spilled through the window, painting Ella's tipsy face in shifting light and shadow.

She leaned against the passenger window, lashes low, her breathing slow and loose from the booze, a faint smile still clinging to her lips.

It was a damn beautiful sight. And it pissed me off.

Thomas had told me Ella was a photographer. But just a little while ago, when I had her wrapped up tight in my arms, I'd asked who she was. Those hazy, post-sex eyes of hers blinked up at me, cheeks still flushed, and she said her name was Ella, a nobody novelist.

My fingers tightened on the wheel, the leather creaking under my grip.

My heart sank, like an icy hand was squeezing it, dragging it down.

I knew that feeling—too many brushes with betrayal to count.

But this time, there was something else mixed in, a bitter disappointment I fucking hated admitting to.

She was lying .

From the moment she dragged me into that empty room, dodging my questions, suspicion had been creeping in, wrapping around my head like a vine, choking tighter with every second. Her panicked eyes, her clumsy kisses—they all pointed to something I didn't want to believe.

She was playing me.

The thought stabbed like a poisoned knife, twisting in my gut.

Who sent her? That idiot Vladimir? Or someone deeper, darker? Was she after intel? Trying to take me out? Or something else entirely?

Irritation and a sharp pang of hurt churned in my chest. I could taste the metallic tang of it in my mouth.

How long had it been since I felt this kind of betrayal?

I glanced at her, my gaze heavy on her unguarded face.

Moonlight traced her delicate features, her long lashes casting soft shadows under her eyes.

This face—this mix of innocence and cunning—had turned a dead-ass boring banquet into chaos and cracked open the walls I thought I'd built around my heart.

"Ella," I said, my voice steady in the confined space of the car, casual as if I were talking about the weather, "Thomas mentioned you studied art history at Saint Petersburg State University?

Is Romanov still teaching that Renaissance seminar?

His class was supposed to be a bitch to get into.

" I kept my eyes on the road, guiding the car smoothly into traffic, like it was just small talk.

"Romanov?" She frowned, her delicate brows knitting together, like her drunk brain was scrambling to keep up. "Oh, that old guy? His class was hard to get into?" She made a little sound, almost cute in her tipsy whining. "It was fine, I guess."

My heart sank deeper, practically hitting rock bottom.

My knuckles went white on the wheel, the cold leather doing nothing to cool the icy rage and sharp pain clawing at my chest. She was bullshitting me.

Saint Petersburg State University didn't have a Professor Romanov, and there sure as hell wasn't a Renaissance seminar.

She didn't even realize she'd walked right into my trap, tripping over her own "fine, I guess" and confirming every suspicion.

She was a plant. The truth branded itself into my chest, each pulse a dull, heavy ache, worse than I'd expected .

A mix of raw anger and cold disappointment slammed around inside me.

I wanted to slam on the brakes, grab her by the throat, and demand answers.

Who sent you? What's your game? Spill it all!

But then my eyes caught her face—soft, vulnerable, softened even more by the alcohol—and those violent urges inexplicably dulled.

The car went quiet, nothing but the engine's low hum and the faint whoosh of the AC filling the space.

Suddenly, she let out a soft laugh, like some funny memory had just hit her. The sound broke the silence, husky from the booze and brimming with pure delight. She turned to me, her eyes sparkling with starlight and lingering drunkenness.

"Hey, Dmitri," she said, her voice laced with a grin, the end of her words curling up like a teasing brush against my nerves.

"You know what? That veal tenderloin tonight?

Total fucking letdown. Worst I've ever had!

How do they even dare serve that—ugh—leathery crap?

" She wrinkled her cute little nose, pulling an exaggerated grimace, mimicking some snooty aristocrat.

"'Oh, darling, this meat is an absolute insult to the culinary arts! '"

Her impression was spot-on, so damn perfect that the tight line of my mouth loosened, just a bit.

She took it as a green light, her eyes lighting up as she leaned in, all excited.

"And Vladimir! Did you see him lose his shit?

Like this—" She tried to mimic his stern, icy face, but it came out as this goofy, squinting caricature, so fucking adorable it was ridiculous.

Her shoulders shook with laughter, and she slumped back in her seat, completely unselfconscious.

It was a goddamn miracle. I stared at Ella, unable to believe that the cold suspicion and pain churning inside me just… melted away. All because this woman was laughing?

I couldn't even remember the last time I'd laughed—really laughed—at one of those fake-ass, scheming, deal-making banquets. Those places were just another battlefield to me, every greeting a hidden jab, every smile laced with venom.

And then she showed up, like a bolt of sunlight, reckless and unfiltered, cutting through the gloom with her sharp wit and fearless attitude. She didn't give a shit about pissing people off, said what she wanted, did what she wanted, and stirred up the whole damn stagnant mess.

"True," I said, my voice dropping low, a hint of warmth creeping in that I hadn't even noticed. My eyes lingered on her cheeks, flushed with excitement. "You've got a sharp eye. Vladimir's old mug was a showstopper tonight."

I paused, the corner of my mouth twitching into a real smirk. "And you nailed the impression."

"Hell yeah!" She tilted her chin up, proud as a damn peacock, her drunk eyes glinting with mischief.

"I'm a pro at riling people up. Been at it since—well—forever.

" Her voice hitched just a fraction when she mentioned "forever," a shadow flickering in her eyes, so quick I almost missed it before it drowned in her tipsy pride.

That tiny pause didn't slip past me. What was that? Tied to whatever she's hiding? A spark of curiosity flared, but her pure, unguarded smile snuffed it out.

"A pro, huh?" I chuckled, the sound low and echoing in the car, more relaxed than I'd expected. "Guess I'll have to drag you along to these boring-ass banquets from now on. You'd make things a hell of a lot more fun."

She giggled, her body swaying with the laugh, a strand of brown hair falling over her smooth forehead. "Happy to help, Mr. Dmitri," she teased, winking with that drunken, flirty charm that was way too fucking tempting.

The car rolled through the bright lights of the commercial district, turning onto quieter streets.

The outline of Maple Lane came into view, dim streetlights casting shadows over rundown apartment buildings.

We were getting closer to the "home" she'd made up.

The haze her smile had chased away crept back, heavy and cold.

She's a plant. The truth wrapped around my heart like icy chains, each beat a dull ache.

But seeing her now, relaxed and open from the booze, showing a side that felt so damn real, the urge to tear everything apart faded, overpowered by something stronger.

So what if she's a plant ?

The thought hit me out of nowhere, so fucking absurd it shook me.

In my world, a mob boss's world, there's only one way to deal with a plant—take them out.

Clean. Final. No loose ends. It's the rule, the code for survival.

But looking at her soft profile in the moonlight, hearing her unfiltered laughter, those cold rules started to crack.

What if… what if she came clean?

The idea sprouted like a dangerous weed in the dark. If she could rip off the mask before it was too late, tell me the truth, maybe… maybe I could let her walk. Give her a way out of this shitstorm.

The thought chilled me. It was a betrayal of the ruthless Dmitri Belov I'd always been.

The world went quiet, just the faint hum of passing cars and her slightly quickened breathing.

She rubbed her eyes, peering blearily at the yellow streetlights and shabby buildings outside, like she wasn't quite sure where we were. Then she turned to me.

Moonlight and streetlight mixed, spilling through the window and across her face. Her eyes were misty with drunkenness, soft and unguarded. She looked at me, her lips curving into a smile so pure it held no trace of scheming, just raw joy and gratitude.

"Dmitri," she said softly, her voice almost dreamlike, "Tonight, I was really happy. Happier than I've ever been." Her gaze locked onto mine, like she was staring into my soul. "I'll always remember this night."

"Always."

Her soft voice hit me like a sledgehammer, slamming into my chest without warning. The mess of emotions I'd been shoving down—suspicion, pain, pity, and some unfamiliar, electric pull—exploded like a barrel of gunpowder with a lit fuse. My rational defenses crumbled in an instant.

My body moved faster than my brain.

I slammed on the brakes, tires screeching against the pavement. The sudden stop threw her forward, only for the seatbelt to snap her back against the seat with a small yelp. The buzz of her drunkenness vanished, her eyes wide with shock and confusion .

I turned to her, no words wasted. Unbuckling my seatbelt, my left hand reached into my suit's inner pocket. My fingers brushed cold metal and crisp paper. I pulled them out—a small brass key and a neatly folded card with a subtle embossed pattern.

My movements were sharp, deliberate, no room for argument. Before she could fully process, I grabbed her hand from her lap. Her skin was cool, trembling slightly. I didn't give her a chance to pull away, my calloused fingers forcing hers open, pressing the key and card into her palm.

The cold bite of the key and the sharp edge of the card made her flinch, her hand instinctively jerking back.

But I tightened my grip, locking her hand—and those items—firmly in mine. I leaned in close, so close I could see her pupils shrink with fear, could feel her warm, uneven breath against my jaw.

"Ella." I stared into her eyes, trying to pierce through the haze of her shock, straight to her core. "I hope tonight's not the end."

Her lashes fluttered hard, her lips parting like she wanted to say something, but the storm in my eyes shut her up.

"Take it." My thumb pressed hard against the back of her hand, rubbing once, firm.

"It's got an address." My gaze stayed locked on hers, catching every flicker of her reaction. "Think it over."

The key and card burned in her hand, scorching my heart too.

"If," my voice dropped lower, rough with a mix of seduction and a dangerous edge, "if tonight meant more to you than just a fleeting thrill, if you want more nights like this one-"

I paused, letting the weight of my words hang in the tight space of the car, feeling her pulse race faster, stronger under my grip.

"Then," I said slowly, each word deliberate, my hold on her hand tightening with undeniable force, "come find me."

The second the words landed, I let go.

Her hand shook as the pressure vanished, nearly dropping the key and card. She yanked her hand to her chest, clutching them like they were live grenades.

I didn't look at her again. I shoved the car door open, night air rushing in, cutting through the thick, heated tension and bringing a sharp clarity. I walked around to her side, pulling the passenger door open.

"We're here." My voice was back to its usual calm, like that intense moment never happened. But inside, the storm still raged.

She snapped out of her daze, gripping the key and card tightly, stumbling out of the car. The night wind caught her brown hair, brushing it across her pale face, still flushed with lingering shock. She stood under the dim streetlight, looking small and fragile.

She looked at me, her lips moving like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

I just gave a slight nod, handed her the shopping bags from the mall earlier, and shut the door.

No goodbyes. The engine roared back to life, a low growl. I turned the wheel sharply, the black car blending into the night like a beast, pulling away from the yellow glow of the streetlight and leaving her standing, lost, under the maple trees.

In the rearview mirror, her figure shrank, fading into a blurry speck before disappearing completely.

I hit the gas, the car speeding down the empty street.

The world outside blurred past, cold air pouring through the open window, stinging my face with a sharp clarity.

My heart pounded heavily in my chest, that brass key I'd pressed into her hand burning into my mind, carrying both a searing heat and an icy doubt.

Would she come?