Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 24

Chapter

Twenty-Four

“All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.”

― Charles M. Schulz

Jade

The ground beneath me shook like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff, just a step away from plummeting into something far worse than death.

The darkness wasn’t the usual kind you get when you shut your eyes. It was worse—a thick fog of bad decisions, and something far too sinister.

The air felt like cement, crushing my chest, suffocating me with each breath. My head spun as if I’d been drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. The whispers— God , the whispers—clawed at my mind, twisted and dark, as if they knew every fear I ever had, and relished each one.

They didn’t even try to hide the poison in their voices.

I twisted my head, desperate to escape this nightmare, but it was like running in quicksand—every movement a struggle. The fog, thick as tar, pressed in on me, and I could feel eyes on me, unseen, but so damn present.

Then, out of nowhere, something warm pressed against my forehead, a stark contrast to the cold gnawing at my bones.

I froze.

My heart slammed in my chest.

As I sank deeper into the abyss, my breath turning shallow and desperate, I heard five rough words whispered into my ear.

“ Sei al sicuro ora, amore .”

Then everything went dark—nothing but darkness, as if the world itself had decided to swallow me whole.

I cracked my eyes open, surprised at how heavy they felt. The faint sunlight crept in, brushing against my skin.

Those damn curtains again?

What’s the point of being a billionaire if you can’t even splurge on proper blackout curtains, James stupid Greg?

I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my head—high and brutal. I winced, bringing my hand to my forehead, and immediately noticed the bandage wrapped around it.

My eyes scanned the room, expecting La Belle Nuit ’s usual over-the-top Marie Antoinette decor, but instead, I was met with… something else.

The room was spacious, modern, with dark hues and deep green accents, and creamy, fluffy covers. Matte black tiles lined the floor, and the walls were adorned with a huge abstract painting by Helen Frankenthaler—green, velvety tones that matched the oppressive mood in the room.

Where the hell was I?

My eyes flicked to the nightstand beside me, where my phone sat next to a glass of orange juice, a cold bottle of Fiji water, two aspirins, and—oh, a vanilla cookie topped with blueberry buttercream frosting from Bagels his eyes were so swollen I wasn’t sure how he could even see. And his hair—well, let’s just say he looked like he’d been dragged through a storm.

There was a roughness to him now, like he’d been through hell and had barely made it out alive. But despite all of that… he was still so freaking handsome, heat bloomed low in my stomach.

I thought I might pass out again.

Six years of working with him, and I had never fully admitted what he was—a walking, breathing, hot magnet.

And now? I couldn’t look away, and honestly, I didn’t even want to.

“There you are,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly, but there was something soft in his eyes—relief, maybe.

Or maybe I was just imagining it.

I swallowed hard. “What happened?”

He sighed and brushed his hand over my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

I straightened up. “Amazing. I could run a marathon.”

His lips twisted. “Little liar,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Butterflies spread between my legs.

“What happened to your face, Lazzio?” I asked, my hands reaching up to grab his face, my fingers grazing over the cuts. “You look?—”

“Magnificent?” he interrupted, a cocky grin pulling at his lips.

I rolled my eyes, trying to hold back a smile. “You look like shit.”

He chuckled darkly. “Ah, my mistake, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I reached for my orange juice, the glass cool in my hand, more to distract myself than to actually drink it. His gaze hadn’t left me, fixed and heavy, like he was studying me.

I turned my head toward the window, needing to escape that stare.

The NYC skyline stared back, all glitter and steel.

My brows furrowed.

“Wait,” I started, still looking out. “Weren’t we just in Aspen?”

He sighed. “What do you remember?”

I closed my eyes, searching through the chaos in my head. My skull throbbed in response, like my brain itself was protesting the effort.

Please, aspirin, work your magic.

Flashes came back in fragments, scattered and blurry.

Then one hit me so vividly I opened my eyes.

The suite came back to me in flashes—dim lights, plush carpet, and… him.

I’d stripped right in front of him, the cool air prickling my nipples, his body pressing into mine like he couldn’t help himself. His hand had circled my throat, and my heart had pounded against his palm, not from fear but something else entirely .

And then I’d begged him—actually begged—to take me hunting.

What the hell had I been thinking?

That’s where my memory fuzzed out, like a scratched DVD skipping over the good parts. Everything after that? Gone.

“I remember… the forest. Snow. That’s it.”

He nodded slowly. “We were hunting. A boar charged us. You panicked, fell, and hit your head on a rock hidden under the snow.”

I stared at him, stunned. “A boar?”

“Big one. Ugly bastard.”

“That’s … humiliating.”

He smirked. “You’re lucky I was there to carry your dramatic ass back to safety.”

“Dramatic?” I snapped, gripping the glass tighter. “I hit my head on a rock , Angelo.”

His name left my lips, unfamiliar, yet dangerously intimate.

I never called him by his name—too personal, too much of a temptation. But now, the way it slid off my tongue, making my lips ache for more, I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to say it over and over again, just to feel it linger.

“Exactly. Next time, leave the hunting to me.”

I set the glass back on the nightstand. “And what about you? What’s your excuse for looking like you took on a bear?”

“Nothing,” he said, dismissively, reaching for his phone. “Anyway, I took you to the hospital. They patched you up, said it was just a bump to the head. Then we flew out—jet, helicopter, and now here we are.”

My jaw dropped. “And I just slept through all of that?”

“You’ve been out for two days, Miss Whitenhouse,” he said with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Guess that rock wasn’t a fan of yours.”

I squinted my eyes, frustration bubbling up as I reached for something, anything, to throw. My fingers brushed against a pillow, and without thinking, I hurled it at him. It was a weak, half-hearted attempt, but of course, he dodged it effortlessly.

He straightened up and coolly gave me a look. “If you’ve got enough energy for theatrics, you’ve got enough to freshen up.”

He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving me there, alone and fuming.

Wait… had he just insinuated that I stank ?