Page 24 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty

“I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars.”

― Stephenie Meyer

Théo

33 years old

Three years ago

“Thank you for your services, Monsieur LeRoy.” His voice oozed faux warmth. “A shame you won’t leave the country with us, especially after our?…? considerable offer. But I suppose even a man like you has his reasons.”

Christopher Dawson sat behind his desk, knuckles brushing the gold cigar box before flipping it open. Three fat Colombian cigars rested inside, lined up.

He offered me one with a tilt of his head. I refused.

From the other side of the heavy double doors, the party howled. The elite giving one of their own a standing ovation before the Dawsons disappeared into thenight.

He tapped his cigar against the edge of a crystal ashtray, watching me. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

He just stood slowly, like his body had gotten heavier with the weight of all his unspoken sins. He came around the desk and held out his hand.

I took it.

“You’ve done exceptional work the past year,” he said, voice lower now, more sincere, if that word meant anything anymore.

“I’ve got enemies in every fucking corner of this country.

And yet?…?nothing ever touched me or my family.

Not a scratch. Not a whisper. You made sure of that.

And for that, I am grateful. We’ll miss you in Bangkok. ”

The antique gold grandfather clock behind him snapped a tick. Loud. Nasty. Outside, fireworks cracked the sky, but all I heard was incoming fire. My jaw clenched before I even realized.

The bass hammered, trying to crack my ribs open. Cheers blurred into screams. Bangs slammed into my skull.

My mind yanked it all back. Sweat slid down my spine. Not from heat, but from the kind of noise that drags you to places you swore you’d never go again.

My hands stayed locked behind me tightly, like they had a mind of their own. Military reflex. No one was barking orders here, but I still stood like I was waiting for one.

Christopher Dawson, former mayor turned parasite, was done playing king. The charges had stacked too high to crawl out from under. Fraud. Laundering. Blood money scrubbed clean for too long. His trial was in a week, but the ending was already written.

He knew it. His lawyers knew it.

He was leaving tomorrow. New identity. New country. No intention of ever setting foot in this city again.

But first, a farewell in the form of a lavish party. A room full of fake applause and back-room vultures smiling widely, knives hidden in their hands.

“I hope you’ll come to visit us sometime.”

With a final nod, I turned and left the room. The hallway stretched ahead, music hammering through my chest, bass rattling my bones, while my hands began twitching.

Dawson’s mansion was worth over forty million dollars, nestled in Old Westbury. The kind of neighborhood where celebrities, billionaires, politicians, and royalty hide from the city.

Acres of land, a maze, and a giant fountain with sculptures of angels and demons going at it. All that space? It was supposed to give someone like me a break. Somewhere to retreat, clear my head, and tame my demons.

I cut through the house, dodging the crowd, sliding toward a back door tucked behind a seven-foot portrait of JFK. My finger tapped the hidden button, and I slipped into the secret exit without a soul noticing. If this was my last day here, I was damn well going to make the most of it.

My boots scraped the rocks as I cut through the maze, music still pounding behind me, swallowed piece by piece by the trees.

I didn’t need to think. My feet knew exactly where to take me. Three rights, two lefts, one more right, and there it was. The fountain. Water sliced through the air, each drop glinting like a razor.

Tout ca est de ta faute, Théo.

Tu as détruit notre vie.

On ne te pardonnera jamais.

They called it PTSD. I called it my demons.

The shit that scraped at my skull, dragged me down in my sleep, and filled my head with memories that wouldn’t let go. The sounds that haunted me, the constant screaming, the noise. It’s like they were always there, waiting to kill me.

But on nights like this, when I was done with all the bullshit and the job was finally over, I’d end up here. The sound of the water steady, unyielding, like a fuck you to everything else.

It drowned out the shit in my head.

I almost wanted to laugh at the irony.

It didn’t erase the memories, but for a minute it would shut them up. And that’s all I needed.

Because deep down, I fucking knew tonight was it. The plan was finished. No second thoughts, no goddamn miracle. Just silence. Forever.

The bullet was already waiting for me on my bedroom table, still and patient, ready to do what nothing else could—end it all. I was ready to fucking die.

Tonight.

But for the first time in forever, someone had dared to fuck with my peace.

Her voice hit me before anything else. A low, almost haunting hum that cut through the steady rush of the fountain, an undercurrent of sound that got under my skin.

Then I saw her.

Red hair. Like fire, like blood freshly spilled. It cascaded down her back in waves, tangled and wild, moving with a mind of its own.

She was climbing over the fountain, stumbling. One leg hooked over the edge, the other nearly sending her face-first into the water.

But she didn’t stop. She kept pushing through, the water rising up her thighs, soaking her black dress, the wet fabric clinging to her body.

I should’ve walked away. Just turned around, disappeared into the night.

But my body betrayed me, locked in place as I watched her. For reasons I’d never understand, I found myself oddly curious about what the hell she’d do next.

She staggered again, almost losing her balance before reaching out for one of the devilish sculptures, her fingers wrapping around the stone.

She laughed, sharp, bitter, like she was mocking it before saying something to it, wiggling her finger in the air.

Then, she straightened up and walked forward until the cascading water touched her arms, letting her fingertips brush against it.

This girl was insane.

She jerked back with a messy hiccup, half a sob punching out of her chest. “I h-hate him,” she spat, voice cracking as her fists slapped the water. “I hate him so fucking much.” Then softer. Wrecked. “But I l-love him too.”

I took a few steps toward the fountain now, brows drawn tight, watching her.

Then she dropped down into the water, knees folding under her like her body had given up. The water climbed to her chest, soaking through whatever thin excuse of a dress she had on.

She threw her head back, eyes closed to the night sky. “I w-wish I could just disappear?…” Her voice barely held together. “And n-not be his daughter anymore.”

Then she let go. Just tipped back like she was done fighting. Like the water could finish the job she didn’t have the guts for. Her whole body slipped under.

Shit.

She was drunk. High. Maybe both. But whatever she was, she was about to drown in a fountain built by bastards for show, and no one inside would hear a thing.

Maybe that was her plan.

I turned, gravel crunching under my boots. Let her die.

Not my fucking problem.

I didn’t save damsels in distress. I buried the men who made them. Big difference.

One step. Two.

THéO!

Water in my lungs. Chest tight. That filthy kind of panic you never forgot.

My stomach dropped, my hands already shaking. Sweat prickled under my collar even though the air was cold.

Putain de merde.

I swore under my breath and spun around, moving fast. The water bubbled where she’d vanished.

My arm shot in and I grabbed her by the wrist, not even bothering to roll up my sleeve.

I yanked her toward me, dragging her heavy frame up until I could get an arm under her knees and the other around her back.

She came up coughing, sputtering, fighting for air.

Still breathing. Still ruining my night.

I carried her to the bench a few steps away, arms full of soaked regret and bad choices. The stone was cold. I dropped her there.

She hacked up water and spit it to the side, her red hair sticking to her cheeks. Then she jolted like she’d just woken up to her own humiliation.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped, voice raw, hands weak as they shoved at my chest.

I stepped back.

“Didn’t ask for your help,” she added, trying to sit up straighter.

“Oh, yeah? And the fountain didn’t ask to be your grave either. Looks like neither of us got a fucking choice.”

She looked like she wanted to slap me, but her hands were shaking too hard to even make a fist. She wiped her face instead, smearing her mascara into war paint.

“If I knew you’d come up swinging, I’d have let the fountain finish the job.”

“Fuck you.”

“There she is,” I said, folding my arms. “Back from the dead and full of charm.”

She curled in on herself, trying to hold on to warmth she didn’t have.

“Where are your parents?” I asked, not sure why I cared.

She snorted, the laugh bitter and broken. “Don’t know,” she muttered, eyes going distant. “Probably off drinking and pretending to be perfect.”

Her face was a mess—puffy, blotchy, dark bags beneath her eyes, bloodshot veins snaking across her skin.

“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked, her voice soft, desperate even, as she shifted on the bench, trying to make herself comfortable even though she was shaking so hard I thought she might collapse.

I dropped to one knee in front of her, close enough to catch the sharp mix of whiskey and vodka clinging to her skin.

“This is my last day. Been working here for two fucking years. I’m not letting my name get tangled up in some mess because you’re too far gone to handle your shit. Call someone for help.”

I straightened up, ready to turn and leave, but then her hand shot out, grabbing the wrist of my jacket. Her grip was weak, but desperate.