Page 17 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Fifteen

“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”

― Ernest Hemingway

Scarlett

The wind bit at my cheeks as I stepped out of the car. I pulled my cardigan tighter, sneakers crunching over cracked concrete.

“When you said you had something to show me, I pictured food. Flowers. Maybe a stolen Monet. Not a hidden murder cave in the middle of nowhere.”

LeRoy slammed the door behind him, not bothering with a response. Just sent me one of those half-lidded, soul-dismissing looks he’d mastered. The kind that implied I was a waste of oxygen, but unfortunately, he still had to deal with me.

He punched in a code on the black steel door and opened it, then waited.

“You first,” I said. “In case this is a trap.”

“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t drag it out,” he muttered. “Would’ve saved myself years of migraines.”

I followed him in, rolling my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. I opened my mouth to remind him it’d been months , not years , but decided against it.

Darkness swallowed us. I walked forward blindly until my forehead hit something solid. His back felt like concrete wrapped in black cotton.

“God, do you train your back with steel or spite?” I groaned, massaging my forehead just as the lights flickered on overhead.

His silence pressed against my skin, heavier than the room, heavier than the cold pool water, and I hated that it still made me feel something.

I should have stayed in my room, kept the door shut, kept his poison out of my ears.

I was one breath away from admitting it, from saying I needed sex to drain the urge to kill myself.

I didn’t let it out, but it didn’t fucking matter.

I was still there, still restless, still hollow, still hoping he would do more than stare.

I looked up and froze. The underground room was massive. The kind of quiet that made your skin itch.

Human-shaped targets lined the back wall in red. Guns were laid out on long wooden tables: pistols, rifles, magazines, all with the safety off. The air tasted of gun oil, metal, and ghosted adrenaline.

There was a couch setup in one corner. Black leather. A TV. A bottle of whiskey half empty beside a crystal ashtray and a pack of cigars that looked expensive enough to start wars over.

“So, this is your little man cave?”

After that lovely little conversation where I’d nearly thrown myself at him, I’d stormed off, thrown myself into the shower, and tried to rinse off the leftover shame. I wasn’t even dressed when he knocked.

“Get dressed. I’ve got something to show you.”

I thought he’d meant paparazzi, or a stalker. Maybe both. That was usually what he flagged, people digging into my life for a paycheck or a thrill.

So, I didn’t ask or argue. I braided my damp hair, threw on a black oversized cardigan, yoga pants, and sneakers, and followed him to my Range Rover. The ride had taken ten minutes, and not a word had been spoken between us.

He shrugged off his jacket, the black shirt beneath clinging to muscle. A thin gold chain disappeared beneath the collar, just enough to catch the light. With black cargo pants and black boots, he looked every inch the weapon he claimed to be.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing my eyes up.

“I’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”

I stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He didn’t bother repeating himself. Just grabbed a handgun, checked the chamber with that brutal, silent precision, and set it down on the table like he was offering me a rose.

“Why?” I asked, folding my arms. “So I can finally put a bullet through your skull and get some fucking peace?”

Moving with a calm that bordered on surgical, he adjusted the targets, pulled on gloves, and reset the range. It was clinical. Controlled. Almost deliciously intimate.

“I don’t need to know how to shoot,” I said. “I have you . Tall, broody, armed. Human murder-daddy. You kill things and grunt. That’s the deal.”

His eyes slid to me, sharp enough to cut skin. “You need to learn how to protect yourself from the kind of bastard who thinks hitting you makes him a man.”

My throat tightened.

Love’s not supposed to bruise, Miss Harper.

He wanted me to learn how to protect myself from my father.

He closed the space between us, silent and slow, before reaching for a larger gun. He slid it across the table next to the first. “You don’t get to die yet, Scarlett. Not until you learn how to survive.”

My pulse spiked as anger flared in my chest. “Surviving is all I’ve ever done. Maybe peace only comes sealed in a box six feet down.”

His voice dropped. “I’ll be rotting in that grave before I let them bury you.”

I let out a low, bitter laugh. “Then maybe we should rot together. Oh, right. You still want to live . Guess you picked the wrong client, buddy.”

His eyes darkened when they fell on my trembling hands. “You’re not surviving. You’re drowning. And the sick part? You’re the one holding your head under.”

The words sliced deep. My arms prickled. My throat tightened.

“You dress it up. You smile for them. But you’ve forgotten who the fuck you are underneath all that noise.”

A shiver rolled down my arms. How the fuck did he see through it all?

I’d spent years faking Scarlett Harper, until some days, I wasn’t sure if the mask had eaten the girl underneath. Until I couldn’t tell which one of us wanted to die more.

“Be you, Scarlett. Not the ghost they paint and sell.”

My jaw clenched. I tried to swallow, tried to pretend his words didn’t carve something open. But they did. They always did.

My breath hitched before I could swallow it down. Weak. And too fucking real.

“Come on.”

“What if I shoot you by accident?” I asked, mouth dry.

He smiled. “Wouldn’t be the first time a pretty girl tried to kill me.” He stepped closer, his gaze flat and merciless. “But you won’t.”

I raised a brow. “Confident.”

He tilted his head. “Nah. I trust you.”

A pause. The kind that dripped.

“That’s worse.”

He gestured to the guns without another word.

I stepped in, letting my fingers drift across the metal. It was cold. Too cold. Heavy in the right way, thrilling in the wrong one.

He picked up the protective glasses and slipped them over my face. Then his hand brushed my braid back, fingers grazing the side of my neck. “Step in closer. Check the safety. Hold it tight. High.”

I felt him move in behind me, slow and heavy. His heat slid up my spine like a hand under my skin. He didn’t even need to touch me, just stood there, close enough to make my thighs clench. His breath hit the back of my neck, then my ear, low and wicked, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

I raised the gun slowly, lining it up with the target.

His hands closed over mine for the briefest moment, his thumb grazing my fingers so quickly I wasn’t sure it had happened at all.

“Aim for the head or the heart,” he murmured, his breath warm at my ear. “Fastest way to drop a body.”

My fingers twitched. “And if I don’t want to kill them?”

“Then shoot the leg. Let them bleed. Let them scream while you watch and decide whether they’re worth finishing.”

The gun felt heavier in my hands, the steel warming against my palm. I didn’t trust my breath not to betray me. “Did they teach you that in the military?”

He was still behind me, too close to ignore. “No. The military taught me how to kill without looking twice. No hesitation. You hesitate, you die.”

I felt his hand cover mine again, anchoring the gun, guiding it higher. His other hand found my hip.

“Focus.”

My mouth went dry as I nodded. Not because I understood. Because I couldn’t fucking breathe.

His breath grazed my ear. “It’ll kick back once you shoot. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” I breathed, though nothing about me felt steady.

“Now.”

The first shot tore the silence in half. The next one snapped sharper. By the third, I was shaking, heart thudding in my throat, ears ringing.

I stepped back on instinct, and my spine met his chest. He didn’t flinch. One hand stayed on the weapon until he pried it gently from my grip. The other slipped away from my hip.

He reset the range, his movements quiet and mechanical as the target whipped forward through the air before jerking to a stop in front of us. One hit to the neck, the others scattered wide and useless.

“That was fucking pathetic,” he muttered.

I stepped closer to the paper. “You didn’t give me much of a warmup, soldier.”

“Stop blinking. Stop shaking. Pretend it’s someone you want dead.”

I stared at the hole in the paper, then looked him dead in the eyes.

“Okay, let me picture your face there.”

With a chuckle, he stepped closer, the sound curling low in his throat. His fingers caught my jaw, tilting it just enough to remind me who was in control. He leaned in, skimming his mouth near my cheek, thumb pressing against my lip as if to test how far I’d let him push.

“Don’t miss this time.”

He pulled back, grabbed the bigger gun, and placed it in my hands. Only then did he move behind me again, slower this time.

As my body tingled with awareness, he pressed forward, chest against my back, his hands locking over mine. His scent flooded my head, dizzying enough to make me want to drop the gun, spin around, and sink my teeth into whatever part of him he’d let me have.

He raised my arms slowly with his, guiding the weapon up in front of us until the barrel pointed forward, his mouth still near my ear.

“I won’t miss,” I whispered. “I’m gonna give you a third eye.”

His fingers tightened over mine. “Go ahead, beauté .”

I breathed hard, my body locked against his. His chin dropped to my shoulder, heavy and warm, our cheeks brushing as I lined up the shot. I felt the scrape of his stubble, the tension in his grip, the sick thrill of being held in his arms.

I fired one shot. Then another. The final shot felt like it reverberated in my soul.

My body jolted. I pressed deeper into him, not out of fear, but instinct. Confidence, thick and filthy, burned through my veins.