Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“It’s a sixth sense, in a way.” I lift my wine bottle. “Want some?”

“Are you typically this relaxed with men you don’t know?”

“Nope. I guess you’re special.” I turn, meeting his gaze for the first time. He’s slouched with his elbows on his knees, his head tilted to the side—watching me. The bench we’re sitting onis rather long, and there is at least an arm’s length between us. I wish he was closer so I could snuggle into his side. For some reason, I’m drawn to this man like a moth to a flame, but with him, it’s not the shiny light that beckons. It’s the darkness. The urge to glimpse what hides behind that silver stare of his.

I’ve missed his gloomy presence. In a strange way, he is one of the few, rare genuine things in my life right now. It says a lot about my mental state, I gather. God, I shouldn’t have gone to Romina’s wedding. She was so happy. And I was jealous of her happiness, knowing I’d never get a chance to experience what she had, to have what she does. It just made me feel like shit.

“Why are you sad?” His eyes are focused on mine, and once again, I’m taken aback by the absolute absence of any kind of emotion in them.

“A dog that was hit by a car was brought in today.” I sigh and look back at the rooftops visible on the horizon. “Poor thing didn’t make it. He died.”

“Everything dies, tiger cub. Dogs. Cats. People. From the moment we’re born, we’re all heading in the same direction. Toward our death. It’s how life works.”

“Yeah . . .” I take another sip of my wine. There is less than half a bottle left, and I’m feeling slightly dizzy. “Should that make me feel better?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I snort. “Word of advice for you. If you ever get invited to deliver a motivational speech, decline.”

The wind blows, sending a few stray hairs into my face. I secure them behind my ear and wrap the blanket tighter around me.

“Are you cold?”

“No, just sleepy. Wine usually has that effect on me.” Holding on to the bottle in one hand and clutching the sides of the blanket with the other, I slide my ass along the wooden bench until I’m sitting right next to him. He smells like a forest again. “I see you got yourself a new coat. Can I keep the one you left behind, then?”

“If you want.” His voice sounds huskier this close.

I close my eyes and lean my head on his shoulder. “What are you doing on my roof, stalker?”

“I’m not sure.”

The sound of traffic drones below us, lulling me into slumber. I turn my head so my nose is pressed into the sleeve of his coat and inhale his scent. He tenses but doesn’t pull away.

“Thanks for the celeriac.”

A few silent seconds stretch between us before he speaks again. “It should have been parsley.”

“I figured that out. Did you steal it?”

“I don’t steal.” He picks up the edge of the blanket and moves it to cover my legs. “I left money at the till.”

“I guess that’s all right, then.” I lean a bit more on him. He seems more at ease with my closeness this time. A moment passes, and then he wraps his arm around my back. The excitement courses through my veins from having his body touching mine. Yes, there’s the blanket and his coat, along with the rest of our clothes as a barrier, but still, it feels so good to be snuggled against him. I tilt my head until my nose nudges his coat, just as a stray thought invades my mind. “Are you married?”

“No.”

A small sigh of relief leaves my lips. “One of my friends got married last week. She had the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen—snow-white and made of delicate lace, with little sparkly crystals along the hem. And the groom . . . He wore a white suit. They seemed so happy. Maybe because it was a real wedding.”

“Are there fake weddings, as well?”

“Most of our Family’s weddings are fake because couples get married out of obligation, not for love. It sucks.” I yawn and lift the bottle to my lips, but before I have the chance to take another swig, he takes it from my hand.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Party pooper.” I reach out, trying to snag my wine. “Can I have my bottle back, please?”

“No.” A curt response above my head and, a moment later, something crashes behind us. Probably my wine. “You looked more beautiful than the bride.”

“And how would you know that?”