Page 23 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Nineteen

“If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave.”

― Emily Bronte

Théo

The shower didn’t do a fucking thing.

Heat hammered my back until my skin stung, steam curling in the air.

I stood there, unmoving, as the water poured down over my shoulders, letting the silence chew through my self-hatred.

My chest tightened, my breaths coming in short, uneven pulls.

I pressed my head to the tile to keep from swaying, my jaw locked so tightly it ached.

The problem with water was it never washed anything off—it brought things back. Showers were supposed to calm you down. For me, they summoned ghosts. Every time.

I kept it quick for a fucking reason. Too long, and I started remembering. The choke. The burn. The sound of someone drowning, and the realization that it’s you.

And then her pretty voice, cutting through the noise in my skull like a flare in the dark.

What do I deserve, Théo?

My hands pressed flat to the cold tiles. A curse slipped out before I could swallow it.

Putain de merde.

In all the years I’d served, I’d never fucking cracked.

Not in a chopper going down over the ocean. Not with a gun to my head, or blood soaking through my boots. I’d watched people with rifles scream their guts out while their brains painted the wall behind them.

I’d held dying men down while they pissed themselves, begging for mothers long fucking buried. Planes had dropped. Boats flipped. Bones had snapped under my hands like twigs. And through all of it, I hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t felt a goddamn thing.

Because out there, losing control gotyou killed, or worse, turned you into something weak. And I didn’t do fucking weak. Not for anyone.

Except for the girl with fire in her hair and smoke on her tongue.

It took every last ounce of control I had not to give in right then and there. I’d been dreaming about it for years. Two years of hell, of wanting her, craving her. And then she had been pressed against me, soft, sweet, and sinful, her mouth parted like an invitation I didn’t deserve.

Her breath had hit my skin, and I swear to God, it burned. And I knew, I knew that if I got another taste, even just one, I’d be ruined.

Done.

Hers.

Pour toujours.

But like a sick bastard chasing pain, I also knew I’d do it anyway.

I got out and dried off without thinking, and dressed in black like always. I sat on the edge of the guest bed, elbows on my knees, hands tight. Staring at the wall like it might give me a reason not to do what I already knew I would.

Her blue eyes had looked hollow tonight?…?except when they’d met mine. Then they’d lit up, like she’d wanted to worship me and destroy me in the same breath. And fuck me, she almost had me on my knees.

I muttered under my breath, jaw clenched so tight it ached. “Fuck it.”

I needed to see her.

I got up and opened the door. The hallway was dark, quiet, half lit by the glow of a wall sconce down by the stairs. Everything smelled like money and furniture polish except a distant candle, maybe vanilla. The kind of house built to keep secrets inside it.

Her door was halfway open across the hall. I walked across with silent steps and knocked once.

No answer.

I pushed the door open. Her room smelled like lavender, all sweet and powdered with something fake and delicate underneath it, like a scent made to hide the rot. I hated it.

Not the scent. Her.

That she could sleep through all this. That she could make a man like me feel this fucking raw.

I hadn’t come here for closure. I’d come to look at the reason I was still breathing and wonder if that was her fault too.

Her room looked like a fucking dollhouse.

Soft-pink walls, white trim, pastel ribbons lined up like they’d never been touched.

Trophies on a shelf, horses on posters, ballerina figurines in a perfect row like they hadn’t been moved in years.

There were paintings too, scattered around the room, all done by a kid who had still believed in things like blue skies and magic carousels.

And then there was Scarlett, tucked into herself, one leg kicked free and toes pointed, the duvet slipping low over her thighs, her mouth slightly parted, red hair spilling like fire across the pillow.

Above her, the ceiling glowed with those small plastic stars. Thousands of them.

Like some little girl had climbed onto the bed night after night, sticking each one up like she thought maybe, just maybe, she’d reach heaven faster that way.

The green glow painted her in quiet magic. It made her look younger.

My eyes caught on something beside the vanity. A frame—small, silver, dusted. I crossed the room slowly and picked it up. It was a photo of her. With blonde hair.

She wore a wide smile, white jodhpurs, and riding boots, reins in her hand like she owned the damn world.

Atop a tall grey horse, a medal hung from her neck.

Her cheeks were flushed, whether from sun or pride, who knew.

She was maybe ten. Still so stupidly happy it hurt to look at.

Still untouched by life. By the kind of shit that ruined girls like her. She looked like light.

I’d only ever seen the fire.

She shifted. My name came from her lips. Barely a whisper. So faint I thought I’d imagined it.

But I hadn’t, because she said it again. Softer this time, like a secret. She shifted again, her head falling to the side, right into the silver spill of moonlight bleeding through the window.

My hand found her cheek. Her skin warmed under my palm, soft and real, grounding me in the worst way. She sighed in her sleep, barely a sound, and leaned in.

I pulled my hand back. My fists clenched at my sides, shaking and burning, the frame still locked in my other hand.

Mon étoile dans l’obscurité.

She’d called me that, and the words had lodged so deeply in my head I’d had to carve them into my skin.

She hadn’t known it that night, but she’d fucking saved me.

From myself.

That’s why I didn’t touch her, even when I was starving for it. Even when it was killing me not to.

Because if I did, I wouldn’t ever fucking stop.