Page 30 of The Sinner’s Desire (The Sinner’s Touch #1)

I left someone at the clinic to look after him specifically—and I have no idea why I did that. Before Lilly, not to mention Ethan, I didn’t really care about people in general. But now, the only thing I know is that I can’t get Bruno out of my head.

Unlike the other children, who’ve already been identified in the national missing persons database—which means they were kidnapped—he came from an orphanage, just like I did.

The social worker said he’s around four and a half, maybe five, and that he doesn’t talk to anyone. But he spoke to me on the phone when I asked the nurse to pass it to him.

Still, she told me he doesn’t engage with anyone at the clinic. He spends the whole day lying in bed, even though his tests show there’s nothing physically wrong with him.

I found out he hadn’t been in the house we raided for very long. According to the date he was taken from the orphanage, it had only been a week. Bruno is one of the “lucky” ones—if that word can even apply to children taken by monsters.

He was still in what they call the breaking phase—the period they use to crush a child’s mind, teach them to obey, to fear, to never resist or try to run.

That means he was probably beaten, starved, but not yet used in a more vile way.

Even so, he must’ve witnessed things no child should ever have to see. No wonder he doesn’t trust adults or want to connect.

At five, kids are usually chatterboxes. I remember the ones that age from my orphanage. They talked nonstop—asking so many questions it drove the older kids crazy.

I stop in front of his door, bracing myself for our meeting.

I walk in and see him exactly as the nurse described—sitting on the bed, staring out the window.

“Bruno,” I say.

He turns to look at me. Even though I can tell he remembers me—I told him I’d come see him—he doesn’t hold eye contact.

His body is fragile, more bone than flesh. But his eyes—his eyes are sharp. The only thing that seems alive in his small frame.

After I was adopted for good, I never spent time around children again, except at school, and even then, I kept to myself. I’ve always been fine alone. If Ethan hadn’t forced our friendship back in boarding school, we probably wouldn’t have gotten close.

I’m not the kind of guy who forms bonds, so I don’t know how to approach the kid in front of me. But I do know loneliness—and I don’t want him to feel that. I need him to know he’s safe now.

“You don’t want to talk?”

“Can you sit on my bed, Amos?” he asks, catching me off-guard.

“I can . . .but why?”

“Because you’re big. If you stay with me, they won’t hurt me anymore.”

Fuck me.

It’s like taking a punch to the chest. He shouldn’t be afraid of anything. At his age, his biggest concern should be deciding what to play with the next day.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, and I know he’s waiting—needing confirmation that I’ll protect him.

My size can be intimidating even to adults, and given what he’s been through, it’d make sense if he feared me too. But instead, he seems to feel safe.

There’s a reason I don’t get close to the kids we save. It’s easier this way—not forming emotional ties. That way, we can let them live their lives once they’re rescued. Still, I always keep an eye on the ones we’ve placed—to make sure their new families treat them right.

So why can’t I walk away from this boy?

Maybe it’s the sadness that radiates off him.

Bruno is too young to carry so much grief. And whether I want to admit it or not—his pain has been haunting me.

I sit on the edge of the bed. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”

“You won’t let them?”

“Me or the doctors here. There are lots of people to protect you now.”

He turns his face back toward the window, looking upset. I don’t know what to do.

I’m not the type who makes promises I don’t intend to keep—and I do plan to watch over him for as long as I need to, making sure he has a decent life. But nothing beyond that.

Maybe it’s just that I was the one who saved him. That could explain the bond he seems to feel. But Blood was with me that night, and Bruno hasn’t said a word to him—not once.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it here?”

He shrugs.

“Hey, look at me.”

Silence. He doesn’t move.

“You don’t want to talk?”

Finally, he faces me. “Where am I going to live?”

“Here, for now,” I say carefully.

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “Can you take me to your house?”

I open my mouth and then close it, completely unsure of what to say. How the hell do I answer that?

Bruno watches me. It’s insane, given his age—but it feels like he can see right through me.

When seconds pass and I still don’t answer, he lies down and pulls the comforter over himself.

“Are you sleepy?” I ask, my chest tightening to the point it feels like I’m suffocating.

Silence.

“Okay, I get that you don’t want to talk anymore today. But I’m going to keep calling to make sure you’re eating, alright?”

Maybe Blood was right. Coming here was a mistake. He can’t get attached to me. I have nothing to give.

So why can’t I stand up and walk away?

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, but his eyes stay shut. “Bruno.”

He acts almost like an adult—wounded, faithless. It wasn’t my intention to make things worse by coming here, but I was worried. Every report I got said he wasn’t adjusting—not to the staff, not to the other kids.

At his age, he shouldn’t be this guarded. But deep down, I know—regardless of his actual age, Bruno has already lived more than most children ever will. Pain leaves a mark. And sometimes . . .those wounds never close.

“I’ll come back,” I say as I leave.

Maybe this visit was more than he could handle in one day.

The silence tells me our interaction is over. But just as I reach the door, I hear, “Are you really coming back? Do you pinky swear?”

“You want me to come back?” I ask, turning to look at him.

He seems to think about his answer. “Whatever,” he mutters, closing his eyes again.

Once more, the feeling of having a mirror held to my face hits me.

We’re too alike.

He doesn’t want to have hope. And I chose to kill mine.