Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“How long will you be gone?”

“Ten days. Maybe a bit more.”

Another nod. “Are you leaving right away?”

“In a few hours.”

She reaches out and strokes my cheek. “Then, stay here tonight.”

“Cub . . .”

“Please.”

I shut my eyes for a moment, arguing with myself that I should leave. I lose. Again.

“All right.”

Nera’s palm tenderly glides along my chin, to the back of my head, pulling my braid from behind my shoulder to let it fall over my pec. Other than Nera’s gentle hand, the last time someone handled my hair was more than two decades ago, and that son of a bitch did not survive the aftermath of the encounter. But her touch is different. I crave it. Welcome the feel of her delicate fingers as they move along the tangled tendrils until they reach the elastic band holding everything together.

“May I?” she asks.

“Yes.”

A small, sleepy smile pulls at her lips as she removes the hair tie and starts undoing my braid. Her movements are slow andcareful as she does it, threading her fingers through the strands. Despite being fully clothed, I somehow feel as if she’s stripping away every layer, leaving me bare before her eyes.

“Are you going to spend the rest of the night squatting beside my bed, demon?”

“That’s the plan.”

She rakes her fingers through my hair once more, then scooches back in bed, until she’s lying next to the wall. An invitation to lie down with her. She won’t ask me to climb in bed the same way she wouldn’t inquire where I’m going. I’ve established the rules of this game we’ve been playing, and even after all these months, she’s still adhering to them. But the problem is, it’s not a game anymore. Not for me. It hasn’t been for a long time.

Every morning I wake up with her face on my mind, and each night I go to sleep with her name on my lips. It’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong. She’s so young, and not just in terms of her years. I’m barely thirty, but I feel ancient in comparison. My three decades on this earth are filled with violence and death.

My eyes dart to the thick textbook lying on her nightstand. It would take me days to read one chapter in that thing. She’s too smart, too gentle and caring to tie herself to someone like me. Earlier this week, I watched as she helped her vet friend save the life of a little bird with a broken wing. They spent two fucking hours fumbling with the stupid thing. Me, on the other hand, I take lives without a second thought. Without a speck of remorse.

I have no idea why she allows this weird relationship of ours to continue. She has family. Friends. Every time I come to see her, I expect her to ask me to go away and not return. She will, eventually. It would be a grave mistake to let her get closereven an inch. She’ll realize that there’s nothing left in me that’s worth a damn. Maybe there never was. Just an empty shell of a man who treads through life leaving behind corpses, misery, and terror everywhere he’s been. If I had an ounce of decency, I would have let myself be killed. Years ago. The world would have been better off without me in it.

“It’s okay.” Nera’s soft whisper fills the silence. “You can stay where you are, if you prefer.”

My eyes wander away from the textbook to meet my cub’s unrelenting gaze. A mistake. Because the moment I do, a strange force pulls me forward, luring me closer. I’m tempted by her warmth, seduced by her sunshine. I need to take it with me when I leave.

Straightening up, I take off my coat and throw it onto the recliner set a few steps away. My suit jacket is next. Nera turns on the bedside lamp and watches me as I start undoing the straps of my shoulder holster that has my two guns tucked in it. She doesn’t even blink. Disarmed, I take a seat on the edge of her bed, my eyes retracing their path to that thick book on the nightstand.

“I couldn’t sleep after you left, so I studied a bit.” She sits up in bed and leans against the headboard. “No better way to make a person fall asleep.”

“Is it interesting?”

“Some parts, yes. But that one is rather boring.” Her hand is in my hair again, stroking it. “See for yourself if you want.”

“I can’t.” I grit my teeth. “I can’t read, cub.”

Her hand halts for a moment, but then she resumes combing her fingers through my hair again.

“Dyslexia?” she asks.

“No. I only finished first grade.”

“How is that possible? Isn’t that against the law?”