Page 19 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Sixteen

“The fear of not being remembered is a dangerous thing.”

― Carla H. Krueger

Scarlett

“Welcome aboard, Miss Harper,” the stewardess said, all glossy lips and fake warmth, handing me champagne like it could wash the blood ties off my tongue. I gave her my coat, nodded, and stepped inside.

Cold leather. Dim lights. Too polished to feel real.

I went straight to the jet’s bedroom, dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the bed. God, I hated Christmas.

Over the years it had turned us into smiling corpses with family names, pretending we didn’t want to set the table on fire. Cousins with glassy stares and weaponized compliments. Aunts whispering like strangled snakes. Uncles sighing like I was a failed investment.

But Angelo was bringing his COO this year, Jade Whitenhouse. I’d met her once. She was amazing—sharp tongue, killer heels, allergic to bullshit. Honestly? I hoped she’d sit next to me. I needed backup. Or a distraction. Or someone to make fun of her boss with over cocktails.

My stomach growled. I got up to call the stewardess, head pounding, ready to beg for pasta?…?or poison.

My body was still humming from last night. From the pool. From the underground range. From his hands locked over mine and the scent of gun oil, sweat, and steel. The sound of his voice still haunted my ears: “Aim for the heart or the head.”

And then how he’d walked away, claiming he had a plane to catch.

So, when I opened the door and saw him there—solid and unbothered, openingthe overhead compartment—my stomach dropped.

LeRoy.

As he lifted his bag, his hoodie rode up just enough to show the edge of his muscles and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

I swallowed, my throat going dry. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in Paris. Or somewhere else in France. Somewhere far away from me. Somewhere that didn’t feel like this, didn’t make my pulse race, didn’t make every inch of my body ache with something I had no business feeling.

But there he was—calm, unbothered, too close. Then he looked up and his eyes found mine.

I shut the door. Hard. Leaning against it, I let out a heavy sigh laced with confusion. He had said he was leaving for France, but he was here ?

The man was a walking contradiction. Or maybe just a beautifully armed bipolar episode with a jawline.

Fuck.

I was supposed to have had a week to mentally prepare myself to see him again. But nope, apparently, I was just supposed to dive right back into the humiliation.

Okay. I can do this. I can face him.

I opened the door and padded slowly down the aisle, the hush of my socks barely louder than my heartbeat. I slid into the seat directly opposite him.

His eyes were fixed on his laptop, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing a map of tattoos across his forearms with numbers, dates, and fragments of sentences. One in particular caught my eye: Mon étoile dans l’obscurité .

The stewardess appeared, placing two glass bottles of water on the table between us. Her smile was sweet and practiced, but her gaze lingered far too long on LeRoy. I watched the pink rise in her cheeks as she backed away.

“Do women always melt when you breathe in their direction and beg you to toss them a scrap of attention?”

That earned me a flicker at the corner of his mouth, just enough to tell me he was holding back a smirk. “Depends on the woman.”

I let out a scoff. “So, yes?”

His gaze met mine, intrigued. “Jealous?”

“Desperation’s not my kink, soldier. You can keep the ones who beg.”

The plane began to roll down the runway, the steady hum of the engines vibrating through the floor beneath me. I buckled my seatbelt, more for something to do than any real concern for safety.

“Who said you’d have to beg for it?” His voice was quieter now, like a secret meant to be overheard.

I looked away, heat crawling up my neck.

The city was vanishing below us, lights blinking out like little stars. The rhythmic click of his keys seemed to fill the silence between us, like some strange background music.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in France?” I muttered. “Eating croissants, wearing a beret, judging everyone with joy in their lives?”

He twisted the cap off the bottle and brought it to his lips, drinking slowly and deliberately, his eyes fixed on me. He didn’t look away, not even as he set it down and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, jaw tight.

There was something filthy in the way he did it, and it sank beneath my skin before I could stop it.

He lifted a shoulder. “Never been to the Hamptons. Figured I’d tag along. Make sure nothing regrettable happens while you’re there.”

Regrettable.

My chest tightened, knowing exactly what he was implying. Did he think my father would hit me again?

Yeah, probably. But never there. Not in front of everyone. Not when he had his legacy to uphold. Not when the family had to look perfect, his kids polished and ready for the show, the spotlight on him .

He’d save the hits for when it was just us. For when nobody could see, and his pride wasn’t at risk.

“Don’t worry. If anything happens, I’ll just remember your little lesson. Straight to the heart or the head, right?”

“Hope you don’t miss this time. Though knowing you, you’ll still find a way to fuck it up.”

I sighed. “Have you always been this—” I stopped myself, shaking my head instead.

His fingers paused over the keyboard. “This what?”

My eyes skimmed over him. The rolled sleeves. The watch. The veins in his forearm. The tattoos. The stillness that somehow took up all the space.

I tilted my head. “Unbearable.”

That earned me a slow glance. “And yet, here you are, still wasting your time on me.”

I leaned back, fighting the way my skin heated under his gaze. “Trust me, it’s not because I enjoy your company.”

He snapped his laptop shut, his eyes never leaving mine as he stood. One hand braced against the table, the other hanging loosely by his side, muscles coiling beneath his shirt. He leaned in slightly.

“Good,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

“Because I’m not here to hold your hand, Miss Harper.

I’m not here to be your friend, or your therapist. I’m here to do what I’m fucking paid for: keep you alive.

Nothing more. Nothing less.” He turned and walked toward the private suite at the back of the plane.

Not my friend. Not my therapist. Just my babysitter with a gun.

Got it.

The seatbelt sign flickered off, its soft buzz breaking the silence, but I didn’t move. My fingers gripped the edge of my seat. I raised my gaze to lock on him as he reached for the door of the suite.

“What does Mon étoile dans l’obscurité mean?”

The words came out rougher than I meant them to, dragged down by my mangled accent. I cringed inwardly, cursing myself for paying more attention to the Conrad brothers in high school than to my French teacher, Madame Blanche.

He stilled. His fingers curled near the handle, freezing for a split second. I could almost feel him holding back something, whatever it was.

“My star in the darkness.”

I didn’t know why, but it felt familiar. Like something I’d heard once, somewhere I couldn’t reach.

LeRoy pushed the door shut behind him and vanished into the darkened private suite, leaving me with the hum of the engines and the question I hadn’t dared ask out loud: Who had he gotten that tattoo for?

And I hated that some twisted part of myself wanted it to be me.