Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

He stiffens. “Please, Nera. I don’t have much restraint left.”

A tiny smile pulls at my lips. He’s used my name just once before. “You’re staying.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” He lowers his head, his eyes downcast—avoiding meeting mine.

I start pulling his jacket off. It’s black, just like the shirt he wears underneath. Always black. I’m pushing the jacket down his arms when he hisses, as if he’s in pain.

Instantly, I stop. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

I strip off his jacket and start unbuttoning his shirt, while he remains unmoving, just standing there staring at the floor. Only after I remove his shirt do I notice a length of bandage wrapped around his left bicep.

“That’s what I had to handle. Why I couldn’t come right away,” he mumbles. “It’s not that bad. Low caliber bullet, but I had to find someone to pull it out and fix me up.”

I press my palm over my mouth. When I was in the car, he stumbled, just before he bellowed for me to drive home. He got shot while covering me with his body. And I left—left him behind not even knowing he was hurt.

I reach out to stroke his arm with my free hand. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’m not. The alternative wasn’t an option. I won’t let anything bad happen to you as long as I live.”

“But you also won’t let me get any closer to you than a kiss?”

“If I do, there’s no pathway back for us.” His voice sounds hollow. “I’m not a good man, cub. If you knew even a fraction of the things I’ve done . . . What I’mstilldoing. You wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

I cup his face, lifting his head to force him to meet my eyes. “You mean, the fact that you’re a hitman?”

I didn’t think a person could go as still as he does when those words leave my mouth. The only part of him that moves are his eyes, searching my face for answers. I can’t even be sure he’s drawn a breath.

“I know,” I whisper. “I’m not as naive as you think.”

I suspected as much since the first night I met him. Especially once I saw that headline. There were other clues, as well. Military background. Mentions of a unit. His reluctance to talk about his life, where he goes, what he does. The magnet from Hungary he left on my fridge—the same day I saw that Budapest news story. And of course, the way he single-handedly defeated over thirty men at the church. Efficient. Deadly. Killer.

“It doesn’t change how I feel,” I say as I caress his cheeks with my thumbs.

His eyes flare, and in the next instant, I find myself crushed against the wall, with his hand gripping my chin.

“And what is it that you feel?” Leaning closer, he presses his forehead to mine. “Tell me.”

“Excitement, while I wait for your arrival. Happiness, when you finally decide to show up. And sadness, every time you leave. I feel joy when I stumble upon the little gifts you leave for me, when I find them around my place.” I reach out behind his back and pull away the hair tie holding his braid as I continue. “Warmth and serenity when we sit next to each other on my roof, doing nothing but staring into the night. Contentment and acceptance because you see me as I am.” My fingers tunnel through his hair, slowly gliding among the long strands. “You. I feel you. With every fiber of my being, demon.”

A long exhale leaves his lips, as if he held his breath during my admission. His arm comes around my waist again, lifting me, carrying me across the room.

“I’ll owe you a bowl,” he growls as he deposits me on the kitchen island and swipes his arm along the surface on my left. My bowl of lemons crashes to the floor, glass shattering everywhere.

I take his face in my hands, pulling him toward me until our noses touch. “You owe me much more than a bowl, demon.”

His nostrils flare, and then he’s demolishing my lips again. A small gasp leaves me when he grabs a fistful of my hair, tugging on it, and wetness instantly pools between my legs. His other hand slowly trails along my neck and chest, pushing me down until I’m sprawled on the kitchen island. I wrap my legs around his waist, his hard cock pressing into my core as he leans forward. His long hair falls to the sides of my head like a silky black veil, shrouding everything from my view but his face.

“Do you know what demons do to their victims?” The rough timbre of his voice penetrates the silence, making me shudder.

I smile and squeeze my legs around him even tighter. “What?”

“They consume them, tiger cub.”

In one smooth motion, he tears my T-shirt from neckline to hem. His hands slide over my throat again, then move along my arms until his fingers encircle my wrists like manacles. He pulls my hands away from his face, bringing them down to the edge of the countertop.

“Hold on,” he says.