Page 8 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Seven

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Scarlett

24 years old

One and a half years ago

“I still can’t believe you threatened to send me to the convent,” I muttered, tossing my headphones onto the soundboard.

The studio reeked of burnt sage and citrus, Victoria’s holy blend for banishing small-dick vibes and bad spirits. I almost smirked at the thought.

Almost.

But even my sarcasm was tired tonight.

The low hum of a half-mixed track buzzed in the background. My journal lay open beside me, pages full of crossed-out lyrics and smeared ink. I’d been here all day, drowning in the wreckage of my second solo album, To Dream Is To Die , an accidental suicide note set to melody.

Alexsei sat on the red leather couch, arms sprawled, one ankle balanced on his knee.

“What can I say?” he chuckled. “I’m all for sexual freedom, really, but you needed to be sedated, sweetheart. You were out there humping anything with a dick just for five seconds of fake warmth, then crashing harder than your last breakup. It wasn’t a good look.”

I crossed my arms, scowling. “Stop slut-shaming me.”

“I’m not, Scar,” he said, softer now.

And I hated how my throat tightened at the sound of it.

“I’ve done the same thing. Drank. Fucked. Ran from myself. Thought pleasure would drown the silence, but it just echoes louder when you stop.”

A lump formed in my throat. As much as I wanted to roll my eyes and brush him off, I knew he was right. The meaningless sex, the drugs, the alcohol, they were all just distractions. Blunt tools to carve out the silence that always came back louder.

Even in my own studio, the noise lingered. Voices that weren’t here anymore still echoed in the corners. Crowds I couldn’t see still screamed in my head. And despite all the chaos, or maybe because of it, I still felt empty.

Outside, rain tapped against the high windows of my penthouse condo.

I leaned back in the chair. “This album’s gonna kill me.”

He smirked. “Let it. Then maybe what rises after will finally feel like you .”

I closed my eyes and tapped my fingers against the arms of the chair, trying to find my way back into the melody that had been haunting me all week.

“Cherry Blossom and Wine” was soft, slow, and bittersweet, just like the title, but the rhythm of the rain outside kept screwing with my timing. Like the sky had decided to add percussion just to spite me.

“I hate him.”

I didn’t need to look—I already knew Alexsei was grinning like the smug bastard he was.

“Well, knowing you,” he said, voice soaked in sarcasm, “that means he’s probably perfect at his job.”

A few days ago, after my bodyguard Christian had flushed my stash like a priest on a mission, I’d slapped him, then fired him.

I didn’t do betrayal, especially not when it came dressed as self-righteous concern.

Right after that, Alexsei, fresh from rekindling his love life and renewing vows with Caia in a private New York chapel like some mobbed-up Nicholas Sparks character, had decided it was time to parent me again.

My options were rehab, the convent, or behave like a good little girl under the watchful eye of a new bodyguard. No more men, no drugs, and no distractions. Just me, myself, and every ugly thought I’d been drowning for years.

So, I’d complied. Reluctantly .

And it had been days now of staring my demons dead in the face—sober, raw, and with nowhere left to run.

Hell, honestly.

And then, a week ago, Théo LeRoy had walked into my life.

“Please, have a seat,” Alexsei had said casually, as the man stepped into my living room in black jeans and a fitted Ralph Lauren polo that clung to his chest.

When my eyes, against my better judgment, had dragged up to meet his, a slow burn crept across my cheeks, and my mouth turned dry.

Fucking hell.

Alexsei Romaniev had officially lost his mind.

There was no way he’d hired the most absurdly gorgeous man I’d ever seen to live under the same roof as me, twenty-four seven, unless it was some kind of psychological warfare.

Either he wanted me to crack, or he was trying to tempt me straight into sin.

Ex–Navy officer. French. Built like he could bench press your trauma and still have energy left to manhandle your demons.

Théo LeRoy was tall, too tall. Broad shoulders, barrel chest, the kind of man you could hide your guilt behind and still have space left over for your darkest cravings.

His eyes were a cold, wintry grey, emotionless, unreadable. His hands looked colder.

The military buzz cut only sharpened the lines of his chiseled jaw. His neck was thick and veined, with the faint curve of tattooed Latin script that just disappeared beneath his collar.

And his arms? Jesus . Built like steel bars, and I was already wondering how they’d feel pinned against my skin.

For a man that thick, he moved like a ghost, silent and smooth. If I hadn’t looked up, I’d have thought Alexsei was talking to himself.

Théo stopped in front of the dining table and locked into position, hands clasped behind his back, eyes ahead, chin up. Like a soldier awaiting orders.

I had to cross my arms and look away.

Because up close, he was lethal. And I had a very bad feeling he knew it.

“Good afternoon, Miss Harper.” His voice filled the space between us—deep, rough, sinfully rich.

It didn’t just speak, it caressed . Like smoke and honey and every bad idea you know you’ll say yes to.

“Théo LeRoy. I’ll be your new bodyguard. I promise to keep you safe and sound.”

I raised a brow, caught off guard not by the name or the title, but by the utter lack of accent. For a supposedly French ex-soldier, the man spoke cleaner English than most Ivy League graduates.

What a waste. The least he could’ve done was purr my name with a little Parisian ruin.

That was how LeRoy had barged into my life and ruined it.

The man was painfully, disgustingly, outrageously gorgeous and about as talkative as a tombstone.

He was the exact opposite of what I would usually go for. I’d always preferred them soft around the edges, tall enough to satisfy the fantasy, but lean, unthreatening, like a strong breeze could knock them over.

Victoria used to say I picked men who looked like they’d crawled out of the grave looking for a charger. And she was right. I chose weak because weak didn’t threaten, didn’t bruise.

Weak didn’t turn your name into a warning.

So, for my body to react that way for a man who could probably snap my spine one-handed, that wasn’t attraction—that was betrayal .

But the worst part about him? He never flinched. Not when I threw fits. Not when I baited him with every trick that had made the others crack.

He just watched me quietly, methodically. Like he was studying a malfunctioning bomb and calculating how long he had before it detonated.

I swear, he had made me feel like I was the job. And maybe I was.

It had been a week. Seven days of silent war. And now I’d found out he was coming on tour with us. Living with him was already unbearable. But traveling, sleeping within earshot, and sharing space, air, and heat for weeks?

Hell no.

We were like gasoline and a lit match.

You’d think if you had to live and breathe next to someone, the universe might throw in a sliver of compatibility. But no, we were opposites carved from opposing hells. If I tried listing all the ways, I’d need the world’s entire ink supply and a thousand blank pages just to start.

The faint tap of Alexsei’s finger on the control panel snapped me back into the room. My gaze locked on his.

“I swear he’s not even human. He never makes a sound! He’s as silent as death and twice as creepy,” I whispered, my eyes darting to the closed door like it might suddenly sprout fangs.

I hate that a part of me sleeps easier knowing he’s there though.

“LeRoy is not—” he started, but I cut him off.

“Shhh!” I snapped, like his name might summon him from the shadows. “Don’t say his name. He’s got radar instead of ears, I’m telling you. The man hears through walls, through souls. Hell, I’m pretty sure he could hear you thinking from across the room.”

He snorted. “You’re exaggerating?—”

“Exaggerating? Please . Last week, some guy brushed against me in the elevator. Barely touched my arm. I didn’t even flinch.

But somehow, LeRoy heard it. I don’t know if it was the fabric shift or my soul twitching.

Twenty minutes later, the guy was limping out of the building with a dislocated shoulder, a broken hand, and a mouth full of blood. ”

I paused. My eyes flicked to the door like it might creak open and reveal him standing there, arms crossed.

“What do you actually know about him?” I whispered.

Alexsei scoffed and reached for my notebook, the one I treated more like a diary or confession booth than a workspace, and started flipping through it with all the care of a raccoon digging through trash. “As if I’d tell you.”

I lunged and yanked it back, snapping it shut. “The man sleeps ten steps from my bedroom. I should at least know if he’s a serial killer. Or a psychopath. Or hell, CIA plant. Something!”

“Ah, so you can run out and buy pepper spray?”

“A gun,” I said flatly.

He let out a full-body laugh and stood. “Alright, alright. Want the file? Here’s the summary.

Ex-Navy officer. French, but studied in international schools, hence the perfect English.

Specialized in counterterrorism and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

No wife, no kids. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t party.

Pretty sure he sleeps upside down like a bat.

Ah, and get this—he won a national medal after he single-handedly took down a crew of pirates trying to hijack a French humanitarian ship headed for Haiti after the earthquake.

The man went full Captain America on them. Just him and his fists.”

I blinked. “ Counterterrorism ?”

Alexsei was already halfway to the door, that crooked grin spreading.

“So?…?he thinks I’m a national threat?”

He shrugged, the kind that said I love you, but yes. “I mean?…?haven’t you burned through five bodyguards and two therapists in under a year?”

I stared.

“That’s kind of a record, Scar.”

I opened my mouth to say something cruel, but all I could do was blink.

He wasn’t wrong. I hated how not wrong he was.

Alexsei disappeared into the hallway, laughing to himself, leaving me with my notebook, my paranoia, and a silence that pressed against my chest.

The kind of silence that knows your name.

I stared at the closed door. Ten steps away, a man who had killed with his hands was now tasked with keeping me alive.

And somehow, that terrified me less than the idea of being alone with myself.