Chapter 6 Sin
SIN
I can’t sleep. It has me pacing the halls, cigarette in hand, listening to the low rumble of bikes outside.
My thoughts are sharp and bitter. Saint’s bringing trouble under our roof again.
After that display at our door with her damned violin, all the men are in an uproar. The idea of Saint, and therefore Sanctuary, tying themselves to some trembling rich girl—it’s crawling under my skin.
I’m just going to go check on things.
And yet, I walk straight to Saint’s door. He’s not in there, instead camping out in his office like a coward.
If I were him, I’d be in there. May as well get something out of the exchange. And it looked like she had plenty to offer. Curvy in all the right places. That fiery red hair and pale skin. The way those big, innocent eyes screamed to be corrupted. Defiled.
I dig a knuckle into the center of my chest.
You don’t go near your brother’s woman, Sin.
She’s not his woman.
Not yet.
I’m just curious. I want to understand the draw of this woman.
She’s soft, scared, and too breakable for our world. She won’t come out of this unscathed.
I clench my jaw, grinding my molars as the rush of desire hits me again. I want to be a little rough with her.
Yet, that song she played repeats in my head.
The look on her face as she drew that bow across those strings as I held the gun on her.
Those soaring notes…they hooked their claws into me, and now I can’t help but remember all of the things I’ve given up because of the life I’ve had: innocence, music, peace.
I pause outside the door, leaning in to listen. There’s a gasp and a soft cry of distress.
Movement has me opening the door and stepping in. If one of the men took it upon themselves to get a taste before she could officially tie herself to Saint, I’ll break their goddamn necks.
But she’s alone, thrashing against the bed, fighting something invisible to me.
When she stills, I hold my breath.
Then she bolts up in the bed, her intake of breath the precursor for a scream. I clamp my hand over her mouth and lean in to hush her.
She’s stiff, terrified. Good. She should be.
I take in the scent of this woman—something sweet and powdery and mixed with man. Saint. My instincts grow dark and red, especially as she trembles under my touch.
I loosen my grip on her mouth, thumb brushing over her mouth in a tease. “Easy. Not him. You’re safe.”
She pushes me back, and I let my hand drop. “Don’t touch me.”
Her fear is palpable. Intoxicating. I want to lean into it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess. Just making sure you weren’t dying.”
She huffs, and I’m surprised by the way she relaxes in inches. But the realization that she thought I was her fiancé has my muscles tightening with a new, deeper anger. Saint told us who he is, and I’m already well versed in how he treats women.
What did he do to her?
And where can I find him to break his face?
“What does manhandling me have to do with making sure I’m not dying?” Her attitude curls more anger low in my stomach, but curiosity churns with it, and that’s dangerous.
For her.
For me.
For Saint.
He’s already claimed her. She’s in his bed after all. But I’m not sure I care.
When I don’t answer her, she stiffens again. “Well?”
“Didn’t need you bringing the house down with your screams. This place is full of wolves, and they’ll all come running.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, blinking as though the dark is clearing in her vision. Like she can finally see me. “You were out there, earlier.”
I almost smile but don’t, letting my chuckle come out cold. “Yeah, the whole club was out there watching you.”
She shakes her head. “Before I started playing. You were pointing your gun at me.”
Seconds after seeing her, the likelihood of my shooting her dwindled. Precautions being what they are, it became a prop to my watching her, defiant but afraid, clutching that violin case, then that violin, like it meant as much as her life.
I’ve never been attached to anything or anyone like that. At least, not in a long time.
I’m watching her now, how her hands curl into the sheets around her hips. She’s in one of Saint’s shirts, smells of his soap, but there’s something softer—more her—underneath. I want to taste it.
“What’s your name?”
It’s not as if she couldn’t describe me to Saint if she wanted to make a complaint, but I don’t tell her anyway. She doesn’t need to know who I am. I don’t want to make the investment if she’s going to disappear as quickly as most of our rescues do.
“You don’t have to be a menace to be frightening.” Her voice is rough from the noises she made as she slept.
The thing is, I’m not trying to be frightening. I’m trying to be careful.
There’s a brittle part of me that’s been steady for years: don’t start with a woman who’s already been broken. Don’t be the reason she learns to break. Don’t be the next thing she flinches from.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. You can get out now.”
Her fire is a trap I want to fly right into. “Can I?”
Her eyes narrow, hands smoothing out over the sheet, over her legs.
I can tell she’s not got pants on under it.
No bra under that shirt. So little between me and her skin.
That thought makes my cock twitch, raging hard for her.
If there were more light in the room, she might catch it with her level of scrutiny.
“This the kind of sass your mother taught you to have to keep a man in line? Or did she teach you better?”
My comment drops her gaze, her chin, and I tuck a knuckle there to lift her gaze back to mine. And fuck, she’s angry, sad, and a little afraid. It makes me lean in a fraction, enough for her lips to part and her to pull in a small gasp. So fucking tempting.
My thumb brushes her mouth by accident—honest—or maybe not.
She freezes. For a second, the world narrows to that small contact and the quiet between heartbeats. I should step away. I don’t.
“Easy,” I say low, and the word sounds softer than I intend.
She flinches like she’s heard an old insult.
It twists something in me.
I want to wrap my hand around her throat, grab her by the back of her neck and yank her closer, and kiss that expressive mouth until she yields to me. It’s a dangerous thought. My loyalty to Saint is the only reason I don’t. But if he decides he doesn’t want her, I’ll gladly take her off his hands.
And somehow, she’s not recoiling from me. She’s far too used to dangerous men.
I change my mind.
“Call me Sin.” I haven’t let a woman put a name to me since before I wanted to be a ghost. It almost comes out shy, like I don’t want to fit into a category of men she’s encountered before.
But I do. I can’t change that.
I stand abruptly, taking the cigarette from behind my ear.
She tests my name with her voice, letting it come out soft and smoky. “Sin.”
It’s enough to threaten my control, and I can’t explain why. I’m lighting the cigarette before I get out the door. “Keep this locked.”
Ensuring it’s locked before I close the door quietly, I walk away and attempt to alter reality to where I was just checking on her.
The song she played repeats in my head. It won’t leave.