Page 21 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Eighteen

“I envy people that know love.That have someone who takes them as they are.”

― Jess C Scott

Scarlett

“Are you high?” Kiara whispered, leaning in close as I slumped against the table, hiding a hiccup behind the back of my hand.

I’d gracefully gotten through the performance.

The second it ended, everyone clapped as I slipped out into the hallway, stole the champagne bucket off a tray, and drank the whole bottle alone behind some ten-thousand-dollar curtain.

My heels were off. My hands shook.

And when my mouth had finally gone numb, I stood, straightened my dress, and walked into that dining room like nothing had happened.

What had LeRoy said?

Brat or drunk.

Fine. Let him choke on both.

Outside, the night pressed close. The beach stretched dark and empty.

We used to come here every summer. Barefoot in the dunes. Castles that always collapsed. Marshmallows by the fire. Me in my father’s lap. Kiara giggling in my mother’s arms.

There was something cruel about growing up and realizing those moments are gone for good.

Tiny pockets of heaven, choked by the hell that followed.

I used to think my parents were gods. Untouchable. Unshakable. The kind of people I wanted to become. Even when their love came quiet, careful, or cold, I still took it like a gift.

And now, I was just a woman trying to figure out who the hell she even was, knowing that every choice I made ended in their disappointment.

It was a strange kind of grief, loving the same people you hated.

I loved them. I did.

But God, sometimes I wish I didn’t.

The first time my father hit me, I was ten.

We had been in his office, back home in New York.

Kiara and I were playing with Barbies near his desk while he was on the phone, pacing with that sharpness in his steps that meant he was annoyed.

We were pretending to have a meeting. Barbie fights over fake deadlines, tiny shoes kicked across the floor.

I swung my doll forward and knocked over his coffee. It spilled across his desk, flooding the papers for whatever he was working on. He turned around so quickly I didn’t even have time to be scared.

And then his hand hit my face.

I remember falling. My cheek burned. My knees scraped the floor.

I didn’t even cry right away. I just stared at the underside of his desk, my Barbie somewhere in the dark, gone.

I remember apologizing over and over again. I apologized to the man who had cracked something sacred inside me, and had called it love with blood still on his palm.

And he’d apologized too. Kind of. Said it was the stress. That the papers were important. That he had gotten carried away. That it wouldn’t happen again.

But it had.

The second time, I knew not to say anything. The third time, I knew to expect it. By the fourth, I realized he didn’t hit me because he was angry. He hit me because he wanted to. Because it worked. Because it kept me in check.

And the older I got, the less he apologized. The more normal it became. The more I hated myself for how much I let slide.

Eventually, I had learned to stop flinching and to smile through it. Because that’s what daughters did, right?

They said thank you for pain dressed as discipline. They survived their parents.

And when the cameras came on, I smiled. Because if I looked perfect enough, maybe he wouldn’t hit me the next time.

In front of me, silver platters steamed with roasted meat, glazed carrots, and warm bread. Everything looked too perfect. I stared at the potatoes, trying to remember the last thing I’d eaten that hadn’t tasted like shame.

Across the room, Angelo finally made his entrance with Jade at his side. Her heels clicked like a warning, her expression unreadable.

“No,” I whispered back to Kiara, giggling against my wrist. “I wish, though.”

My father gave us a look, the kind that didn’t need words to make my spine go straight. Then Mister Lazzio stood, glass raised, launching into some tired speech about family and pride and whatever else rich men liked to hear themselves say.

The room quieted, but inside my head everything buzzed.

And right then, sitting at that perfect table in my perfect dress, I wanted nothing more than to grab another bottle, slip out the side door, and disappear into the sea.

“ La famiglia ,” Mister Lazzio cheered, raising his glass high.

“ La famiglia ,” they all echoed, crystal kissing crystal.

Next to me, Jade started fidgeting, her hands twitching in her lap.

I was about to ask if she was okay, but before I could, Angelo cut in with something about gifts for the kids and a holiday show the staff had put together.

Christmas magic, or whatever.

My head was too fuzzy to follow.

We all got up like good little guests and filed out. I slipped away toward the front entrance, already done with the night, ready to crawl back into something dark and quiet.

I slumped into the back seat, barely managing the words, “Take me home.”

When we pulled up to the house, the driver opened the door. I stepped out slowly, the air colder now, or maybe I was just feeling it for once. I headed inside, slinging my coat carelessly on the rack, the house quiet now. The staff must’ve gone home.

I stopped under the chandelier, the one imported from somewhere expensive and sun-drenched. Greece, I think.

I leaned against the wall as my balance tipped slightly. Slipping off my heels, I let them drop to the marble with a soft thud.

Barefoot, I crossed the foyer, wandered into the living room, and cracked one of the windows just enough to let the cold December air in. It slid across my skin, salt bitten and sharp, curling at my legs as I moved.

I walked out to the pool. The water was still, dark, holding the moon inside it like a secret.

There had always been something about water. The way it cradled you, swallowed you whole, then spit you back out as someone slightly different. Like grief, like love. It never let you leave untouched.

Sometimes I thought I must’ve been a mermaid in some other life. Or maybe just a girl who wanted to drown quietly without anyone noticing.

I padded closer to the pool, wobbling slightly as the tiles shifted under my feet.

I stopped just shy of the edge, my shadow rippling across the water like it was drunk too.

“Planning to drown again?”

I screamed. Actually screamed . A loud, embarrassing, full-body kind of scream.

I nearly tripped into the pool. A hand yanked the back of my dress before I could make a splash, dragging me upright as my heart tried to punch its way out of my chest.

“Jesus Christ,” I snapped. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I turned and forgot how to breathe.

LeRoy stood there, glistening like sin incarnate.

His skin was flushed, sweat trailing over every inch of him like it knew exactly where to go.

Ink crawled across his arms, dipped into his ribs, and wrapped around his collarbone.

There was one just above his hip, small and cruel, right where the line of hair disappeared into his waistband.

A crescent moon.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

Apparently tonight wasn’t done trying to ruin me.

The muscles on his stomach flexed as he reached for a towel, veins in his forearms rising like a warning. His pants hung low, clinging to his hips in a way that felt illegal.

And for a second, just one reckless, champagne-laced second, I wanted to touch him. Just to see if he was real, or if my drunk brain had started inventing him.

“What is it with you and water?” he asked, still catching his breath, voice rough enough to scrape.

His chest rose too fast. His knuckles flexed at his sides, just once. It passed in a blink, but I saw it. Like the sight of the pool had dragged something ugly to the surface.

He scrubbed the towel across his face then down his chest, slow and careless. His stomach rose and fell with each breath, the muscles tight and slick, as if the night itself was trying to cool him down and was failing miserably.

I glanced down. His sweatpants were soaked and heavy with sand. A midnight run in December?…? shirtless .

I squinted at him. “You do realize it’s suicidal to run half naked in this weather, right?”

He looked at me like I was the one acting insane.

“Are you some kind of masochist, or just allergic to normal behavior?”

Still nothing. Just that stare. Unbothered. A little wild around the edges.

He slung the towel over his shoulder and crossed his arms, which was a crime in itself. His chest still deliciously glistened with sweat, every muscle flexing in a way that felt downright unfair.

If I looked any longer, I’d need holy water.

“Planning a midnight swim?”

I swayed forward a little. “Why, wanna get wet with me, soldier?”

His eyes dropped to my hand. To the drop of sweat I was tracing down the center of his chest with the tip of one finger.

His breath flared. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “You’re drunk.”

There was no judgment in it. Just frustration barely leashed.

“ And a brat,” I added, smiling like it was a compliment. “What can I say? I don’t do well with?…?you know, command-y stuff .”

“Orders,” he corrected softly, then let go like I’d bitten him.

I rubbed my wrist, gaze crawling up his chest until it met his.

I’d never been the girl who melted over tall guys. But this wasn’t tall—this was towering. Built to block light and common sense. I had to lift my chin just to meet his stare, and every time I did, something low inside me pulled tight, like a wire straining to snap.

“Did you follow orders in the military?” I asked, voice syrupy.

“Always.”

I giggled, unsteady on my feet, swaying a little too close, until the space between us started to ache. My hand moved like it had a mind of its own, fingers tracing the ink just below his ear.

à la vie, à la mort.

The letters felt hot under my touch. Or maybe that was just him.

“Did they ever order you to kill someone?”

He stared at me like he was trying to figure out where to place the bullet.