Page 16 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Fourteen

“Soldiers can sometimes make decisions that are smarter than the orders they’ve been given.”

― Orson Scott Card

Théo

I paced the room, my chest tight. The city lights flickered beyond the glass, indifferent.

My heart wouldn’t fucking slow down. My tongue kept swelling, choking me. My throat burned. My skin felt scorched. I couldn’t swallow it down. Couldn’t breathe through it. Couldn’t claw my way out.

Théo!

Tout ca c’est de ta faute, Théo.

On ne te pardonnera jamais.

Fuck.

I should have let the pretty girl drown. I should have stood there, watched her sink, and moved on with my fucking life.

But no.

I had to dive in too. I had to save her, and now, because of her, that same burn had come for me again. The same one that clawed up my spine every time I was dragged under. That old, familiar ache wrapping around my lungs, biting into my throat, sinking its teeth deep, and drinking me dry.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t fucking do it. Her life meant too much to me.

I would follow the oath I had made. To protect her—even from herself. Even from the wreck she made of me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, shoved my head into my hands, and tried to count.

Un. Deux. Trois.

Anything to drown out the sound of evil breathing close, sinking its teeth into my ear.

Officer Lefebvre once told me that work kept the monsters quiet. Idle hands fed them.

So, whenever those fucking panic attacks hit, I’d head straight for the shooting range in the submarine or in our quarters on land. It was the only way to fucking keep me steady.

But tonight, that was not what I needed. Because even with the storm ripping through my head, I kept slipping back to her.

Scarlett.

She was probably a few doors down, dripping wet, trembling, those pretty lips already cursing my name for tearing her little scheme apart.

With a low curse, I ripped my clothes off and cleaned myself quickly, not letting the shower last a second longer than necessary. My heart was stuck in my throat. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I grabbed the nearest pants and hoodie I could find and then reached for my phone, checking to see if the water had fucked it up. But then I heard three low knocks at the door.

I inhaled deeply, walked over, and grabbed the handle. I opened the door just enough, keeping my body in the way.

She was trembling like a junkie in withdrawal, her eyes wide and glassy. Her hands were shaking. She was still in those wet clothes, red hair plastered to her face, lips tinted soft blue.

She smiled, but it never touched her eyes.

“What do you want?”

“I need your help, soldier.”

My brow lifted, eyes narrowing. “With what?”

She raised her hand, tapping her long, sharp red nail against the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Her eyes dragged over me, unhurried, tracing every bare inch before meeting mine again, heat simmering under her wet lashes.

“Because of you and Romaniev, I haven’t been able to?…?take the edge off,” she murmured, her nail dragging lazy, taunting circles along the doorframe. “To relax.”

I let out a dark, low laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to amuse either of us. I stepped forward through the doorway. She stepped back, but I kept closing in, as slow as a noose tightening. The door clicked shut behind me, and I pressed my back against it, arms crossed.

“Tragic,” I said flatly. “But the drugstore’s closed, sweetheart. House rules.”

She scoffed, her own arms crossing tightly beneath her chest.

“In case it slipped your thick skull, this is still my house.”

I let my gaze drag over her. “Maybe,” I said. “But you’re still under my watch, Miss Harper. Which means I own every fucking breath you take under this roof. So, no drugs. No pills. No powders. No pathetic little highs.”

She had no fucking clue. I had faced one of my demons for her. Dragged myself back into that hell, my hands shaking, lungs burning, just to pull her out. And she thought I was angry because she was still breathing?

Putain.

I’d face every single thing I feared, line them up one by one, and walk through them again and again if it meant feeling her breath against my skin. I’d kill, steal, and bleed dry to keep the life in her, even if she used it only to spit venom at me.

My voice dropped. “You wanna play the victim?” I leaned in, close enough to feel her exhale catch between us. “Go ahead. March into that kitchen. Pick the sharpest knife you can find. I’ll watch. Hell, I’ll hold your fucking hair back while you do it.”

I didn’t look away. Neither did she.

Her fists curled. Her cheeks flushed deeply, blue eyes darkening into something stormy and wild.

Fuck, she was beautiful when she was angry.

She let out a dark, breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I actually came in here to ask for something?…? else . Something that had nothing to do with drugs. But you know what?” Her hand lifted in the air, flipping the conversation like a loaded gun. “Forget it. I’ll go find that knife after all.”

She stepped in close, too close, her long, cutting red nail pressing right against my chest. “But you,” she whispered, eyes locked on mine, “better start sleeping with both eyes open.”

Her smile was sweet. Vicious.

“Because I’m not planning on using it on myself, soldier.”

My brows furrowed. “What did you want?” If she wasn’t here for drugs, then what the hell could she possibly?—

The second I caught the look in her eyes, it hit me. Slow. Heavy. Heated.

Putain de merde.

Her lips curled. “Yeah,” she drawled, savoring every letter. “I think I’ll take my chances somewhere else. I’d hate to lower myself enough to use you as a toy.” She stepped in closer, her breath brushing my lips. “Even I have standards.”

She let those words hang, sweet and cruel, before turning away, knowing damn well I was still watching.

A slow, ugly heat spread in my chest. Anger, thick with something worse—dread.

She was slipping.

Her mind was already chasing the numbness, desperate to drown the crash before it hit. Before she was forced to sit in the ruins and face what she had tried to do. Before she saw how rotten everything around her really was. How rotten she had become inside.

I had seen it before. I had lived it. I knew every fucking step of that descent.

But what she needed was not some filthy drug from a back alley. It was not the quick, useless relief of some unknown bastard between her legs. That would not happen under my watch. Not now. Not fucking ever.

She didn’t need numbness. She needed control.

And I would be the one to teach her.