Dead to Sin (Fate Trace Book 3)

Prologue

The low hum of chatter and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit bar at L”Ultima Cena, busier for a weeknight than I expected it to be. The Italian restaurant was a town favorite that had recently come under new ownership. Perhaps the locals were curious to see what—if any—changes had been made.

I weaved through the crowded tables, my eyes scanning for an empty stool at the counter. I made it to the bar and placed my drink order, begging the slight tremor in my hand to piss off.

I sat in a daze waiting for my rum and coke, contemplating all of my life choices up until this point. Curating for Reverie had been my dream job. Iris had been my ideal employer. The art gallery had become the place I wanted to be most, surrounded by vibrant colors and thought-provoking pieces that were hand-picked by me. It was there, in that space of creativity and expression, that I experienced some of my best days.

Until—for an entire month—Iris left Reverie in my hands and fucked off to Thailand. She’d given me next to no notice before leaving. A meditation vacation, she called it. I was the one who needed to fucking meditate at that point, but spending thirty days without speaking and surviving solely on coconut lentils and turmeric shots was not my idea of a good time. It was nothing but a desperate attempt to reconnect with her creative spirit, and I hadn’t heard from her at all for the entire month of August. The days had blurred together for me during her time away, each one blending seamlessly into the next as I developed a new routine at work, filling both our roles and learning as I went.

And then I got the call that she wasn”t coming back.

She’d decided to stay.

And because of that, Reverie was closing.

When I took my first steps towards pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts just over four years ago, I knew that my career path would be filled with challenges and uncertainties. The realm of art is fickle, and heavily influenced by the economy—which we all know is an ever-changing dumpster fire. And of course, there’s also always the chance that your easy-going boss will prioritize their own creative muses over your livelihood, leaving you in the dust with no artwork to showcase and no gallery to display it in.

I was well aware of the risks, but my love of art overshadowed everything else. I had been ready to embrace the unpredictability of it all and was excited about the unconventional opportunities I knew would come with it.

But now, I had already exhausted all of those opportunities. At almost 23, I found myself without a job or any other prospects in my area. I sat, feeling lost and defeated, wondering what else was there for me in Fate Trace. The answer screamed resolutely in my mind: Fuck all, that’s what.

A thick knot formed in the back of my throat and my vision blurred around the edges.

Ugh. I was going to cry.

Scratch that. I was crying.

I slid the barstool away from the polished wooden counter and darted through the crowded room toward the bathroom.

My cheeks were already wet and I couldn”t stand the thought of weeping in a room full of strangers. The dim lighting and stifling background noise only amplified my feelings of vulnerability as I pulled out my phone and quickly requested an Uber while rushing to the bathroom.

I shoved the first door I came to open, and pressed my back against the wall next to it, sliding to the floor. I was hyper-aware of how disgusting public restrooms were, especially in a bar, but I couldn”t find it within myself to care at that moment.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, hot tears streaming down my face as I forced myself to breathe.

The door opened again, but whatever. I was 100% not the only woman to ever cry in a bar restroom and I would most definitely not be the last. In the best-case scenario, they would ignore me. Worst, I would get a drunk girl pep talk. Which… honestly I could probably use right about now.

A pair of brandy leather Oxfords appeared next to me, stopping mid-stride. Not your typical choice for women”s evening attire, but to each her own.

Except, “Ah. Uh…” There was a long pause, and I couldn’t blame them for being rendered speechless because the person in question had a voice so sexy and deep, that they were most definitely not a drunk girl at all. “This is the men’s room,” he finally said.

Oh.

Great.

Fantastic, even.

I sucked in a long breath through my nose and tilted my head up… and up… and my eyes caught on the vibrant moth tattooed on the front of his throat… and up, until I finally met his eyes. “Are you sure?”

During my time of great distress which was becoming greater by the moment, he looked down at me and smirked. “The urinals didn’t give it away?”

I looked to the right, hoping like hell as I turned my head that he was joking and found… urinals.

I sighed and dropped my head back down to my knees.

The air shifted in the room and when I lifted my head again, we were eye to eye. He’d crouched down to me, a concerned look on his face.

Unexpected.

I could have felt intimidated—maybe should have given the circumstances—but I didn’t. Not at all.

He was gorgeous. Aesthetically pleasing, for sure. Duquesnoy’s Adonis had nothing on him.

He probably had a bigger dick too.

His ice-blue eyes danced over my face from behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “What’s your name?” It felt like an awkward thing to ask now, but there was genuine curiosity behind the words, almost like he couldn’t continue the conversation if he didn’t know.

I don’t know for sure why I said it. Perhaps for some small amount of anonymity in the midst of this embarrassing new low, but I blurted out, “Iris.”

“Iris,” he tested the name like he was trying it on for size. “Why are you crying on the floor of the men’s room?”

“To be fair… I thought it was the women’s room.”

He huffed a small laugh.

His hands casually hung over his thighs, and I noticed they were also covered in tattoos. We had that in common.

I should have gotten up. Left. Done anything, really, other than sit there with my chin on the divot where my knees met and stare straight ahead, gazing blankly at his tan cable-knit sweater. It was an odd juxtaposition—his sexy librarian business casual against all the ink.

I liked it.

“Are you a librarian?” My brain-to-mouth filter was apparently out of order. At least I left out the sexy part.

“No,” he laughed again.

So glad I could amuse him.

“Are you a librarian?” he asked, half joking.

“Unfortunately not,” I answered flatly. “That would have likely been a more promising career path.”

“Is that why you’re crying on the floor of the men’s room, then? Your job?”

“Lack thereof,” I replied, sullen.

“Ah. We’re getting somewhere.”

I covered my thumb with the edge of my sleeve and wiped the corner of my eye. “Any words of wisdom for someone on the verge of desperation?”

“A wise man once said, ‘I would rather die of passion than of boredom,’ so I guess my advice would be to find what you’re passionate about. The rest will fall into place.”

I gave him a half smile. “Van Gogh said that.” I was even more drawn to him now. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my passion is what led me here and that Van Gogh was right because I definitely felt like I was dying. So instead I asked, “What are you passionate about?”

“Death,” he answered without hesitation.

Ted Bundy much?“Are you being nice to me as a means to lure me to my demise?”

“No,” he stood and reached his hand down to me. “I’m a mortician.”

I placed my hand in his and allowed him to pull me to my feet. “Thanks,” I said. And then, “I guess that’s a reliable job.”

His brow pinched. “Yeah, but it’s also a meaningful job.”

“Mm. Do you take walk-ins?” An ill-timed joke, but I said it anyway. Probably because having someone so attractive in such close proximity to me made me fucking nervous.

The corner of his mouth twitched and he rolled his eyes like this wasn’t the first time he’d heard that.

His hand reached out and gently traced the curve of my jawline, his thumb, and forefinger lingering beneath my chin like he couldn’t help himself. The touch was intimate and unexpected, causing chill bumps to rise on my arms. “Funny,” he said, almost as if he was in a daze now.

I would rather die of passion than of boredom.

I can’t pinpoint why I did what I did next. Maybe it was the fact that my emotions were a mess from the events of the day. Maybe it was just him.

But I stood on my tiptoes, tilted my head upward, threaded my fingers through his dark hair, and kissed him.

And he didn’t seem to mind.

He didn’t seem to mind so much that he slid his hands under my thighs, his strong grip lifting me, and my legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. My back hit the cool tile of the bathroom wall as he pressed himself against me. For a moment, I worried about someone walking in on us, but then his lips were on my neck and his fingers traced over the exposed parts of my skin, and I couldn”t find it in me to care.

His cock hardened against my core and I realized how perfect this encounter was for making me forget what a shit day I’d had.

I tried to speak, but my breath caught in my chest as his teeth grazed my pulse point. I managed to form some semblance of the question in my mind, barely audible above the rush of blood in my ears. “I would feel so much better about this day,” I paused, gasping, “If you would please, let me suck your cock.”

I couldn’t put my finger on what it was about this complete stranger that had me desperate for him to open a daycare center in the back of my throat, but every part of my existence felt like it might be the answer to all my problems.

He paused and pulled back from me, his pupils blown wide and his mouth parted in surprise at my words.

For a second I thought maybe I’d popped the bubble we were in, but he lowered me down, the heat of his hard body against mine, and my feet touched the ground, but he didn”t let go right away. “You think sucking a stranger’s cock in a filthy public restroom, where anyone could walk in at any time, will fix all of your problems?”

I lowered my gaze, shame washing over me when I realized how ridiculous this entire situation was—how utterly desperate I must have sounded to him.

“I– I’m sorry,” I stuttered and moved to walk away.

In a swift, almost violent motion, his fingers closed around my wrist and he yanked me back to him. I stumbled, caught off guard by his sudden pull, and he used the momentum of the movement to shove me to my knees. “I didn’t say I had a problem with it, Iris.”

It felt wrong that he called me that now, and I almost wanted to admit that I had lied to him about my name, but I didn’t. I was too desperate to feel something other than the whirlwind of emotions that had been filtering through me all afternoon and too distracted by the fact that the zipper of his pants was right there.

The concrete bit into my skin, and he looked down at me with hooded eyes. Expectant.

“I don’t do this,” I admitted.

“Changed your mind?” he asked, offering his hand to help me back to my feet.

I stared at him, my thoughts racing. This was not me, not safe, even. But somehow, every part of me wanted it. Needed it.

I tugged my lip between my teeth and his eyes darted to the motion. His hand dropped and he watched, mesmerized, as I unbuttoned his slacks and pulled his cock out.

He traced a path along my jawline, his fingers grazing my skin as he moved them from my chin to just behind my ear. Then he threaded his fingers through the back of my hair, grasping it tightly in his fist.

He paused—waiting—and it was very clear that despite the rough way he handled me, I was the one in charge here.

I was tentative in the way I curled my fingers around the hot, hard length of him. He was big—bigger than I’d had before and unquestionably bigger than Adonis—with thick, prominent veins that I had the sudden urge to trace every inch of with the tip of my tongue.

His fist tightened in my hair like he was barely able to restrain himself, and I liked that I had this effect on someone. On him.

I felt so time-pressed. Not just because someone could walk in at any given moment, but because if I gave myself even a second to think too hard about it, I might come to my senses.

I parted my lips and wrapped them around the head of his cock. The underside of his length slid over my tongue, grazing the back of my throat, and I sucked. Just once.

I gazed up at him to find that there was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before now and I realized that I was no longer the one in control.

His free hand gripped my jaw and it dawned on me that I was at the mercy of a complete stranger.

“I’ve got you,” he said. It was hushed and gentle, and I melted in his hands. This was definitely what I needed.

Running my hands up the sides of his thighs, I dug my fingers into the fabric of his pants, grasping for whatever leverage I could gain as he rocked against my face.

He was unhurried, hitting the back of my throat again and again with languid thrusts.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, but the small bursts of air were in short supply as his pace quickened. My head spun from the lack of oxygen, and the throaty sounds coming from his mouth did unholy things to me.

I felt lax. Floaty. Hazy around the edges.

He pulled away, stroking himself. “Take a big breath for me, baby.”

I did as he asked, filling my lungs to the brim before he rested the head of his cock against my bottom lip and tugged at the roots of my hair, shoving all the way back in.

With his pelvis flush against my open mouth, he shuddered for a moment, then sucked in a breath—like he was trying to stave off the inevitable.

He groaned and canted his hips as he began to fuck my mouth again. “Fuck,” he ground out. “So perfect. If you were mine—” his breath caught in his throat. “I would keep this pretty mouth stuffed full of my cock.”

His cock pulsed against my tongue, filling my throat. And the fact that it was my mouth—that it was me—who was making him come pulled a deep, contented sigh from the back of my throat.

When he finally pulled away from me and tucked his spent cock back in his pants, the bubble did pop.

The door swung open, and the man who entered eyed us curiously but said nothing. He was clearly drunk as he stumbled over to the urinals, and I scrambled to my feet, the absurdity of what I’d just done pressing down on me.

“I–I have to go.”

I pulled the door open and rushed toward the back exit. My phone buzzed with the arrival of my Uber and I didn’t look back, not when he called after me and not when I felt him moving behind me in the torrential downpour that had erupted outside the doors of the bar.

I ran away from what we’d done—away from him—but the words he’d spoken that night stuck with me long after.

And I didn’t even know his name.