Page 35 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Six

“Soul connections are not often found and are worth every bit of fight left in you to keep.”

― Shannon Alder

Théo

I opened the last drawer and placed the mic inside, right next to the two red, star-shaped pasties and her little thong she’d gracefully slid in my pocket.

Her gold star necklace lay beside them. I always took it off before my shower, then slid it back on like a habit I couldn’t break.

It glinted next to the framed picture of her as a kid standing next to her horse, with blonde hair, smiling like the world hadn’t touched her yet.

The one I’d taken a few weeks ago from the Hamptons.

The red satin scarf she’d worn around her neck at that gala three years ago was folded beneath it all. I’d found her on the floor that night, heels off, makeup smudged, passed out.

This was the drawer. My collection. The pieces of her that belonged to me now.

I’d guarded them like treasure. Every scrap, every trace. All of it, hers. All of it, mine.

I sat on the edge of my bed, towel clinging low to my hips, water still dripping from my neck in slow trails like blood. My legs were spread, shoulders slumped forward, body heavy with something far worse than exhaustion.

Putain. I’d miscalculated.

I had done the math, run the risk, locked down every possible variable?…?and still, I had gotten it fucking wrong.

I’d underestimated what it would feel like to have Scarlett Harper inside my life. Inside my space. Inside my head.

Inside my heart.

She was dragging my demons out by the throat.

I’d promised myself years ago: no attachments. No softness. No warmth. No one allowed past the wire. It wasn’t just a boundary, it was fucking survival.

Nine years of military conditioning. No comfort, just orders barked through blood and dirt until every trace of feeling had been ground out of me.

Emotional silence. Precision through pain.

I was trained to function, not to feel. Every weakness beaten out, every craving locked in a cage and left to rot.

Then four more as a bodyguard, working sixteen-hour days like clockwork.

I’d built a life so fucking rigid it had strangled me quiet.

It was the perfect punishment.

A life shaped by guilt and discipline. No slip-ups. No feeling. No one to hurt.

But now?

Now I’d tasted heaven on earth, and I wanted it again. Worse, I needed it.

But this wasn’t just lust. She was peeling the skin off everything I’d locked away.

She wanted closer. She wanted the truth. She wanted to know what lived behind my quiet. And I didn’t know if I was ready to show her.

Because if she saw it, if she saw what I really was?… She’d run.

I was fucking sure of it.

Three faint knocks.

I inhaled slowly through my nose as the door creaked open. Her footsteps were soft, hesitant, just the sound of bare soles brushing cold tile.

My room was dark, lit only by the ghost of the city beyond the window and the pale light of the moon bleeding in through the glass.

Then I smelled her. Lavender. Subtle. Sweet. The kind of scent that doesn’t ask permission before crawling under your skin.

I didn’t turn around. Just listened. The rustle of fabric. The quiet tug of the cover being drawn back. She climbed into the bed behind me and went quiet.

I could feel her eyes on me, dragging over my skin. From the base of my neck to my ribs, down to the small of my back. She didn’t touch me. She just stared.

I have never slept in the same room as anyone. Not once. Even in the Navy, I’d fought for my own corner. However small. However isolated.

I couldn’t stand the sound of someone else breathing near me. Too human. Too fucking close. It reminded me of things I’d spent years trying to kill off.

Then her voice, barely above a whisper. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Thirty-six.”

She let out a sleepy laugh, soft and fading. “One for every year you’ve lived?”

I stared out the window, my jaw clenched tight. “No.”

A pause.

“One for every year I survived when I wasn’t supposed to.”

A breath left her lips, soft and steady, like she was exhaling the last of whatever held her together.

I opened my eyes and glanced over my shoulder. She was watching me, her gaze heavy and sad, stripped of every mask she usually wore.

“I’m glad you’re still here, Théo,” she whispered.

No teasing. No smile. Just the truth, plain and wrecking. My chest tightened, a slow, splintering kind of ache, the kind that came when something touched a part of me I thought was long dead.

“You may be the only one, Scarlett.”

Her eyes searched mine like she was trying to memorize something.

“Come here, soldier,” she said softly.

I stood without a word and dropped the towel. Pulling the covers back, I lay down beside her, careful not to touch. I draped the blanket over us again, but the second I did, she moved. Her body curled into mine like it belonged there. Soft against every inch of me.

Fuck me. She was naked too.

She sighed quietly and pressed her face to my chest, her leg over mine, her fingers curling near my ribs like she was afraid I might disappear. My hand slid down her back, tracing the line of her spine until she shivered. Her hair was already braided.

“I still can’t believe you’re eleven years older than me,” she murmured against my skin.

“And I still can’t believe a twenty-five year old spoiled little brat thinks she can climb into my bed and give me orders.”

Her lips brushed my chest as she smiled. “Don’t lie. I know you secretly like it.”

I let out a low breath. “I like a lot of things I shouldn’t.”

She looked up, eyes half lidded. “Am I one of them?”

“My favorite one.”

I pressed my lips to the crown of her head and inhaled. Her hair was damp, still scented faintly of lavender and something sweeter underneath. We stayed like that for a long time.

Her fingers shifted lower, dragging slowly across my abs.

“What’s your favorite color?” she whispered, her voice soft, almost playful.

“What’s yours?”

She hummed. “Purple.”

“Same.”

“Liar,” she smiled, pinching just above my hip.

“What?” I murmured, hand gliding down her arm. “Just because you picked it, I can’t?”

She giggled. “That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is. You like it, I like it. That’s how I fucking work.”

She shifted, her leg curling tighter around mine. “So what, if I said pink, you’d suddenly become a fan of that too?”

I tilted my head. “If you moaned wearing it, I’d worship it, baby.”

She let out a breathy laugh and smacked my chest, soft but sharp. Then she shifted a little closer, her breath warm against my throat. “Okay?…?what’s your favorite city?”

I paused, my eyes drifting back to the window.

“Nice,” I said, voice low. “I grew up near there. The sky burns in purples and pinks over the sea every night, you’d love it. And you?”

She rested her chin on my chest, looking up at me. “I don’t have one.”

I looked down at her. “A city?”

“A place,” she corrected. Her voice was quieter now, fragile at the edges. “I’ve lived everywhere and nowhere. Hotels, houses, boarding schools?…?none of it felt like anything.”

My hand found the back of her neck.

“Nice sounds beautiful,” she whispered.

I didn’t tell her I hadn’t been back in years, or that it didn’t feel like home anymore either. Some things were better left buried. So I just nodded, holding her tighter.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

My mind wandered back. Yellow mimosa spilling through the garden, bees cutting through the summer air. My mother’s hands, always busy with clippers and twine, scattering bouquets around the house.

“Yellow mimosa. And yours is lavender, right?”

She nodded, her eyes sparkling. “How do you know? Are you a stalker?”

“I know because I listen, baby. And your mother told on you.”

I hadn’t needed her mother to tell me. I already fucking knew. Lavender was everywhere in her place. On her sheets. In the way her skin smelled when she passed too close.

But it was that painting that did it.

The one in her hallway. A naked girl with red hair, running through a lavender field, arms out, wild and unbothered. I’d seen it every time I’d gotten her home over the years, tossed over my shoulder or barely standing. My eyes had always landed on it.

She wasn’t running to escape. She was running to be chased. And fuck, I was always the one behind her in my head, close enough to touch her but never enough to catch.

“Ugh. She really doesn’t understand the concept of mystery,” she groaned. “Anyway, do you know why lavender is my favorite flower, Théo?”

I dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Tell me, beauté .”

“Because,” she breathed, “they stand for patience and devotion. Their scent always finds you first, like it’s already decided you’re theirs.

And when you finally see them, all violet and wild, you stop.

You kneel. You don’t even think. You just give in.

Because you know that kind of devotion will either ruin you?… or save you.”

“That’s exactly what you are to me, Miss Harper.”

She breathed out against my skin, lips grazing my chest. Then her finger dragged slowly across the skull inked on my bicep.

“How many men have you killed?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost gentle.

My hand moved across her cheek again. “Too many.”

She held my gaze, unblinking. “How many did you show mercy?”

“Not enough.” I leaned in, closely enough to taste her breath. “You looking to be the exception?”

She smirked, shifting just enough to let her thigh brush against mine. “Depends. What do you do to women who misbehave?”

I let my fingers trail down her throat, stopping just above her collarbone. “Depends how badly they want to be punished.”

She laughed softly, but her breath hitched. “Good thing I’m shit at behaving.”

The corner of my lip lifted. “Luckily for you, I’m specialized in handling redheaded superstars with the most perfect tits and the sweetest ass,” I said, my palm landing hard against her backside.