Page 19 of Sin in My Inbox (Sexting Spark #1)

Dmitri

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in the bedroom, the whiskey in my hand catching the moonlight with an amber glow. Behind me, Ella was fast asleep on the bed, her breathing steady and soft. The sedative had worked like a charm.

Tonight's mess had caught me off guard. I hadn't expected her to witness that execution, let alone react the way she did. That kind of fear didn't lie—her wide-eyed panic, her trembling body—it was too raw, too real. It had reminded me of myself, years ago, the first time I took a life.

I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around me as the night replayed in my head. Her pale face, her shaking frame, that fragile edge of breaking down.

If she'd been a spy sent by the enemy, she wouldn't have cracked like that. No trained operative would've lost it over a couple of traitors biting the dust. But that didn't fully erase my doubts.

"Ella." That fake name, the way it stumbled out of her mouth, too stiff, too forced. The way she dodged questions about her past. Too many mysteries had swirled around her. Yet tonight, her reaction felt so damn real, so… breakable.

I stepped to the bed, studying her face in the moonlight. Even in sleep, her brow was creased, like she was trapped in a nightmare. My hand twitched to smooth it out, but I stopped myself at the last second.

I couldn't go soft. Not until I knew who she really was. No matter how harmless she looked.

My eyes drifted to the cheap canvas bag slung over a chair, its frayed edges a stark contrast to the sleek luxury of the room. I hesitated for a split second, then grabbed it. Digging through, I found a wallet, some makeup, keys, random junk… and a worn-out notebook.

The cover was so beat-up you couldn't tell its original color, the edges curled from being flipped through a million times. That thing was cherished.

I opened it. Pages crammed with tight handwriting—story outlines, character sketches, plot fragments. She'd poured her heart into it, every detail polished with care.

One story caught my eye. A regular girl met a dangerous businessman.

Their meeting was dramatic, and the way it unfolded…

I raised an eyebrow. Some scenes felt familiar, especially the steamy ones.

They were practically ripped from our own encounters.

My little liar wasn't just lying to my face—she was turning our story into her novel.

It was a weird mix of emotions. I was half-amused, half-pissed, but it confirmed one thing: she was no spy. No agent would've been dumb enough to jot down mission details in a damn notebook.

Still, I needed more. I needed to know who she was, why she was lying, what she wanted.

I stepped onto the balcony and pulled out my phone, dialing Nick.

"Boss," he answered instantly.

"Run a check on someone. I'll send the photo. I want everything—birth certificate, school records, job history, family, friends, even what pets she's had."

"How long do I have? "

I glanced at my watch. It was seven in the evening. "By nine tonight."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Do it thorough," I said, taking a drag on my cigarette. "No gaps."

I hung up and leaned against the balcony railing, the cigarette flickering in the cool evening air. The nicotine did little to quiet the nagging question in my head.

Why was she lying to me? It was like a splinter in my brain.

My mind laid it out cold and clear: either she was scared of who I was, using lies as a shield, or she had an agenda, wielding lies like a weapon. That was the logical play.

But then a third thought crept in, uninvited, like a wisp of smoke—maybe she was just a scared girl, caught in a storm, throwing up flimsy lies to build a shaky wall around herself.

That idea was dangerous. It had this warmth that melted the ice I'd built up, tugging me toward the one answer I shouldn't have trusted. I needed to kill that thought. Losing my edge in this game was a death sentence. That kind of thinking didn't belong here.

Back in the bedroom, I sank into the chair by the window. She was still out, murmuring softly now and then. I couldn't make out the words, but I felt her unease. Even in sleep, she wasn't at peace.

Time dragged on, and I kept watching her, my mind slipping back to that third possibility. If she was just a regular girl, why the fake identity? If she had a motive, why was she so damn clumsy about it?

Her face still carried traces of fear, even in sleep. It was too real, too deep, not something you could fake.

At nine sharp, Nick called back.

"Boss, I got everything."

"Talk," I said, forcing my voice steady, burying the eager edge under a flat tone.

"Avery Carter, twenty-three, born in South LA. Her dad, George Carter, was a piece of shit—drunk, abusive, locked up for aggravated assault when she was fifteen. Died in prison."

The words hit like a jab to the chest. I frowned, picturing that girl with her faint spark of innocence growing up in that kind of hell. The man who should've protected her was her first taste of cruelty.

"Her mom, Helena Carter, forty-eight, diagnosed with chronic kidney disease when Avery was seventeen. Scraped by as a cleaner, but it wasn't enough for medical bills."

I leaned forward, hungry for more. "Her life—what was it like?"

"Graduated from a South LA public school, top grades, but dropped out to care for her mom and pay bills. Started working at eighteen—cashier, waitress, cleaner, you name it."

A bright girl sacrificing her future for family. It was a tired story in this city, one I'd normally shrug off. But with her, it stung. She deserved better than that.

"Two weeks ago, she got a job at Aisley Resort," Nick said, pausing. "Good worker, well-liked. Most of her paycheck went to her mom's medical bills."

Aisley Resort? My brow lifted. Of all places, she was working for me. Fate had a twisted sense of humor, dropping what I wanted most in a corner of my own empire I'd never bothered to check.

"Her social life was bare. No friends outside work, no boyfriend, no shady contacts. Just work, hospital, home—repeat."

"Anything stand out?"

"She wrote," Nick said, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Hit the library a lot, borrowed tons of books, even entered some writing contests. Neighbors said she was often up late scribbling."

Writing. I glanced at the notebook on the table. Those stories weren't just a hobby—they were her dream.

"Avery Carter had one bank account, never more than a grand in it. No weird transactions, just regular expenses and medical bills. So, all in all…" Nick took a breath, wrapping it up. "She was just a girl grinding to survive. No ties to any crews."

I didn't say anything for a long time.

"Boss?" Nick prodded. "Want me to dig deeper?"

"No," I said. "Good work."

I hung up, sinking into thought.

So that was it. Simple. She was a hotel worker who stumbled into my world. She lied because she was scared—scared I'd find out who she was, scared of losing whatever this was, scared I'd toss her aside.

Relief, guilt, and something deeper twisted in my chest.

I walked to the bed, no hesitation this time, and brushed my fingers across her cheek. She nuzzled my hand in her sleep, like a kitten chasing warmth. It was so natural, so trusting, it made my heart do this weird, unfamiliar squeeze.

My little liar. No—my Avery.

A girl who lied to survive, who gave up her dreams for her mom, who fought to keep a spark of innocence in a brutal world.

The sky darkened, and the pills were wearing off. How was I going to handle this? Call out her lies? Keep playing this unspoken game?

My phone buzzed—Thomas, reminding me of a ten o'clock video call. The empire needed running, enemies needed watching, and there was always bloody business to handle.

But right then, staring at her peaceful face, none of that felt like it mattered.

It was nine-thirty. Avery's long lashes fluttered, her brow furrowing as she let out a soft, sleepy hum.

Her eyes cracked open, the haze of sleep quickly replaced by panic as the unfamiliar room hit her. Her face went pale, eyes wide with fear, body tensing as her fingers clutched the silk sheets.

"Good evening," I said, closing her notebook, my voice calm.

The unease in her eyes was impossible to miss.

"What was in that milk?" she asked, glaring at me, her voice sharp despite the grogginess.

"Just something to calm you down," I said honestly. "You needed rest after that shitshow."

I moved toward her, slow and deliberate, keeping my steps light. Still, she shrank back until she was pressed against the wall, no room left to retreat.

A sharp pang hit my chest, twisting my gut. I got her fear—fear was the language of my world, my go-to weapon. But seeing it aimed at her, it was like a poisoned blade slicing right back into me .

"I'm not into pointless killing," I said, stopping at a safe distance. "No need to be so jumpy."

Her breathing was still fast, but she was trying to pull herself together. "Then what about those people who died?"

"Rats," I said flatly. "In my world, betrayal's got one ending."

Panic flickered across her face. "You really hate being lied to, huh?"

That question hit a nerve. She asked so carefully, so tentatively, I knew exactly what was eating at her.

"Yeah," I said, keeping it real. "I fucking hate being lied to."

Her face went white, fear pooling in her eyes again. I could see the gears turning—she was terrified. I knew.

I couldn't let her stay scared like that.

In a few strides, I closed the gap, pulling her into my arms. She was stiff as a board, but I could feel her heart pounding.

"But," I murmured in her ear, my voice softer than I thought I could manage, "I've got patience for you."

I leaned down, kissing her with a gentleness I didn't know I had. Her tension eased, her breathing steadied.

When we pulled apart, her eyes flicked to the desk in the corner, where her notebook sat.

"You went through my bag?" She bolted upright, her voice rough with sleep and accusation, struggling to break free from my hold.

"Guilty," I said, pausing for effect, locking eyes with her. "Chapter eight's a real page-turner. That storage room scene? Damn vivid."

"You creep!" Fear took a backseat as anger and embarrassment flared, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

I tightened my grip, trapping her against me, leaning close to her ear, my breath grazing her skin. "I just couldn't resist wanting to know every damn thing about you."

Her struggling stopped, her body going still for a moment.

I raised a brow, saying nothing. The room was quiet except for her quick breaths.

She looked away, her voice dropping. "It's just boring made-up stories."

"Oh yeah?" I grabbed the notebook, flipping to a page and reading low, "He raised his hands in surrender, but his lips curled into a sly grin, his eyes locked on her, silently promising tonight was hers to command." I looked up, my gaze burning into her. "This come from real life?"

She bit her lip, silent, her ears red as hell. That mix of embarrassment and defiance was so damn cute I could've eaten her up.

"No worries," I said, setting the notebook aside, my free hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers brushing her soft skin. "I don't mind being your muse. Hell, I'm happy to give you more material."

Avery looked up at me, her voice soft but real. "Dmitri, you're different. Everyone else said I was chasing stupid daydreams, lost in fantasies to escape reality. They thought someone like me should just stick to working."

Her eyes were a mix of gratitude and old pain, carrying the weight of her past.

She bit her lip, almost disbelieving. "You really didn't think I was daydreaming?"

I thought of Nick's report—how she'd given up college for her mom but never stopped building worlds in her stories. That stubborn spark, shining through a shitty life, like a dusty but defiant pearl.

"Nah, I respected people with dreams," I said. "In my world, too many forgot what that even felt like."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up.

"And," I tapped the notebook, "from what you wrote, you've got talent. Your words hit hard, pulled the reader in." I paused. "Might've needed a bit more real-world experience, though, and some pointers."

"You gonna coach me, Professor Belov?" she asked, propping herself up, her amber eyes full of skepticism.

I ruffled her messy hair, the gesture softer than I meant. "Yeah, but there was a catch."

"What's that?" she asked, leaning in slightly.

I didn't answer. Instead, I eased her back onto the soft bed, my hands framing her, caging her in my shadow. Moonlight slipped through the curtains, catching in her clear eyes .

Seeing no resistance, I sat up, looking down at her from the edge of the bed.

Avery gazed up, her lips parting slightly, her breathing quickening.

I undid my suit jacket, slow and deliberate, tossing it onto a chair. Then my fingers moved to my collar, loosening the deep blue silk tie, the perfect knot unraveling under my touch.

"Dmitri?" she whispered, my name a question.

"Here's the deal," I cut her off, dangling the tie above her face, its silk brushing her forehead. "You'll be my study material."

Her face flushed crimson, ears burning. I heard her sharp breaths, saw her chest rising and falling fast.

"Tonight," I said, the tie slipping lower, "I'm gonna show you what real sensation feels like. It'll make your writing hit harder."

The tie glided down, grazing her eyes, the silk making her shiver. Her lashes fluttered like butterfly wings.

"Dmitri…" Her voice trembled, almost pleading.

"You could've said no," I paused, looking at her seriously. "One word, and it would've stopped."

After a long moment, she bit her lip, her voice barely a whisper. "Keep going."

A satisfied smirk tugged at my lips. "Good girl."

I placed the tie in her hands, feeling her trembling fingers. The silk made her breath hitch.

"Cover your eyes."

Avery lifted the tie to her face, the deep blue silk glinting in the moonlight.

"Dmitri…" she murmured, her voice laced with final hesitation.

"Trust me," I said, my thumb brushing her hand, soothing her. "Now, close your eyes."

She took a deep breath, shutting her eyes. Under my silent gaze, she draped the tie over them. When the knot was tied, her body trembled, like she'd just realized she'd given up control.

The sight hit me hard. Avery, lying on the soft bed, my tie binding her eyes, her senses heightened without sight. Every breath was quick, tense. The moonlight spilled over her, the silk tie a sleek restraint, making her look fragile and irresistible.

She lay there, hands helpless at her sides, chest rising with unease. That vulnerability, that control—it fed something primal in me.

She was like a gift, wrapped up and mine to unwrap.

"Good girl," I murmured, a low, satisfied sound.