Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“I don’t care about your hobby schedule, Nera. You’re going to be there,” he snaps, then points his fork at Zara. “You, too. In an outfit that’s appropriate for the venue and the weather. I’ll get back to you with a date.”

Keeping her eyes downcast, Zara sets her utensils on her plate and slowly rises. She doesn’t say a word as she steps away and leaves the dining room.

“That was mean!” I hiss as soon as my sister is out of earshot.

“She’s not a kid anymore. Your sister is almost eighteen, and she needs to start paying attention to how she presents herself. She can’t go around covered from head to toe in a hundred-degree heat, for God’s sake. People will talk.”

“Then let them fucking talk!” I throw the napkin onto my plate, then rush after Zara.

Her room is on the second floor, right next to my old one. They are adjoined with a connecting door, and since I’mnot spending time here anymore, I let Zara use my childhood bedroom as her sewing studio.

I find Zara sitting on the edge of her bed, gripping the bedspread in her fingers. Fashion magazines, sketches, and various pieces of fabric are scattered all around. I lean my shoulder on the doorframe and take in the mess.

“My room isn’t enough, huh?” I smile, trying to keep the mood light. “Come on. Show me what you’re working on.”

Zara just shrugs, her shoulders seem to slump even more after. I step into her domain, trying my best not to trip or dislodge any of the sewing patterns she has spread out on the floor.

“This looks amazing.” I bend and pick up a sketch showing a sleeveless gown with a halter bodice that ties around the neck. “I could use a dress for that lunch with Tiziano if you have the time.”

My sister’s lips instantly widen into a smile. She springs from the bed and rushes around the room, collecting the tape measure and a notepad off the recliner.

“Are you sure about the design?” she asks as she crouches to grab a pencil from under the bed. “I can make changes if you want.”

“No changes. It’s going to be perfect. Like every piece of clothing you’ve made for me.”

I run my hand over the puffy sleeve of her white blouse. She told me the style is known as “lantern,” where the material balloons out toward the wrists and the cuffs are held together with pearl buttons. The shirt’s collar is high and tight, forming a big bow around her neck. She’s so talented.

Shortly after our brother was killed, Zara developed vitiligo. It started on her fingers and wrists, but then the white spots appeared on her chest, legs, and arms. Around the time Mom died, it progressed to include areas around her eyes. No matter the temperature outside, Zara always wears high-necklines and long sleeves because she doesn’t like it when people stare. Last year, she tried covering the discolored parts of her face with a foundation, but her skin didn’t handle it well. Still, she kept switching the brands, trying different ones, until she developed such a rash that I had to sit her down and put a mirror in her hand. She is absolutely gorgeous, and I tried to make her see that. There isn’t a single thing that isn’t beautiful about my sister. I wanted her to realize that about herself, to recognize that she is pretty and perfect, just as she is. She didn’t believe me, but at least she stopped using the foundation.

“How about lavender silk?” Zara asks as she wraps the tape measure around my hips.

“Yeah, lavender sounds great.” I raise my arms so she can measure my bust. “So . . . I met someone at the vet office last week.”

Zara arches an eyebrow.

“Tall. Like, really tall. Amazing body. Long black hair. He’s probably the hottest man I’ve ever met.”

“Did he bring a pet for a checkup?”

“Um, not exactly.” I laugh. “He ended up being the patient.”

I give her the details of my run-in with the stranger, starting with how I found him in an alley, but I skip the gun part.

I still think about him. His rough, broken voice. The way he lay on that table, utterly still, as I dug the bullet out of his flesh. A couple of years back, one of my father’s guards was shot justoutside our gates. While the thug who was stupid enough to do it was swiftly dealt with by our security guys, the wounded man was brought into the house. Our family doctor arrived to treat him, and even though I heard the man was given an anesthetic, he still wailed loud enough for me to hear it in my room. The whole neighborhood probably heard him.

But the thing that left the biggest impression on me was my stranger’s eyes. So beautiful. And so empty. There was nothing in those two silver orbs. No fear of dying. No concern. Nothing. Looking into them felt like I was looking at a soul made of stone.

When I’m finished recounting our run-in, Zara just stares at me for a couple of moments, then grabs my shoulders and shouts into my face.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

I blink at her. Zara never curses. And I don’t remember the last time I heard her raise her voice.

“Alone,” she continues, shaking my shoulders. “In the middle of the night. Treating gunshot wounds on a stranger?”

“Listen. I know it was stupid, okay? But when I saw him in that alley, just staring at the dark sky, it reminded me of me, somehow. I couldn’t just leave him there to bleed out.”

“You could have called 911.”