What Sinners Love

by Eva Ashwood

  “What the fuck were you thinking, Sparrow?”

  14

  The metal of the door is cool against the backs of my arms, a stark contrast to the heat of Gray’s skin.

  For a second, I’m shocked into silence by the force of his anger. I haven’t seen him this pissed since the day he and Declan got into a fistfight, and now all that anger is directed at me.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he repeats, his voice a low rumble. “You weren’t supposed to let it get that far. You weren’t supposed to push him that far. You know he’s fucking dangerous!”

  “I was trying to get something,” I bite out, pushing against his chest. He grasps my wrists, trapping them in his hands. “We needed something incriminating, and he wasn’t biting—I had to get him to bite. He’s obviously been coached by his dad, instructed not to say anything, and even though Cliff may be a cocky dumbass, his dad isn’t.”

  But that’s not why I fought, I want to tell him. I want to tell him what I remembered about Cliff, and it’s on the tip of my tongue, but the words get stuck.

  I can’t tell him. I can’t let him know the truth.

  Because I don’t want to know it myself.

  “This was a bad fucking idea,” Gray growls, his eyes darker than usual as they meet mine. “I told you I didn’t like it. I don’t want to use you as bait, Sparrow. It’s not safe.”

  “Then why did you agree to this plan?” I demand, pushing against him. My mind is still churning with memories, and it’s making it impossible to keep a lid on my emotions. “If you want to keep me so fucking safe, then lock me up in that house of yours. Or build a fucking bunker of your own and lock me in there.”

  His jaw twitches. “Don’t fucking tempt me. There’s no telling what either of them will do, and no guarantee that Cliff won’t snap if you push him too far. Just because his dad has instructed him not to say anything, just because his dad wants to lie low right now, that doesn’t mean Cliff won’t react. Don’t you get it? That fucker is insane.”

  “I know.”

  I swallow, trying to tear my gaze away from his angry eyes. But he’s so close to me that there’s nowhere else to look but him. So I fix my gaze on his chin, shadowed and slightly rough with stubble.

  He doesn’t like that. His hand finds my jaw, his rough fingertips brushing against the soft skin as he forces me to look at him.

  “No,” he says, “you clearly don’t. Not enough to take this seriously.”

  Tell him. Inside, my mind is screaming at me. Tell him.

  He thinks because he’s been in this fucked up world of privilege and wealth longer than I have that I won’t understand. But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve known Cliff a whole lot longer than he has.

  “I know how fucked up he is, Gray,” I whisper, my voice going hoarse. “I know more than you or Declan or Elias or anyone else.”

  I suck in a breath, not wanting to tell him. Not wanting to say it out loud, to make it real.

  Just when I thought everything couldn’t get worse, it did. Just when I thought that my past couldn’t get any more fucked up, it did.

  Cliff tried to… claim me.

  Like we’re animals, like I’m an object to be bartered for or sold. He thinks he owns me, that his father’s promise to a little boy means he has a claim on me. But no one—not even the Sinners—have a claim like that. It’s beyond fucked up.

  I swallow. “I know because I remember,” I say. My heart pounds so hard in my chest it’s making my throat feel tight. “It came rushing back in while he was talking to me—it was something he said. It all just came back. Cliff tried to claim me when we were younger.”

  I mentally cringe at the words, but Gray’s whole body goes still, his shoulders tense. He knows I wouldn’t fuck around right now, that I wouldn’t make this up. I know he can tell where this is going, but just like me, he doesn’t want to believe it.

  “When we were kids, his dad promised me to him,” I continue. The words taste bitter, repulsive. “As if you can just promise someone else’s life to your kid, as if you can claim or own a person. Cliff grew up thinking he owned me, and he still thinks that. He’s obsessed with me because he thinks I’m his.”

  Gray doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move or even take a breath. Horror, plain and vivid, is etched into his features.

  “Sparrow.” His hands drop from my face, hanging limply at his sides. “I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t either,” I say hoarsely. “But now I do. Now we do.” A mirthless laugh falls from my lips. “I still didn’t get anything usable from him on tape though. I got so pissed when the memory hit me that I threatened him. I lost track of what I was trying to do, and I fucking blew it.”

  My heart thunders in my chest as the rooftop goes dead silent. The breeze seems to stop blowing, as if the world itself is holding its breath. When Gray’s eyes finally flicker back up to mine, they’re filled with steel.

  “Fuck him,” he says quietly, hands snaking up over my body and shoulders before settling with a possessive but gentle hold on the back of my neck. “Fuck that bastard.”

  The words are still on his lips as he leans forward and presses them against mine. A spark lights between us as our bodies connect. The fear, the unknown—it’s all still there, but when he kisses me, it seems further away. When he kisses me, I know that no one, not even Cliff Montgomery, can hurt me. When he kisses me, I know that he won’t stop at anything to protect me and keep me safe.

  When he kisses me, he takes away the pain.

  He breaks away only to take a breath, his blue-green eyes shades darker when they meet mine. “Don’t ever,” he grits out, “for even one second, let yourself think that he can claim you, Sparrow. Because as long as I live, and as long as Declan and Elias live, no one can do that. Not Cliff. Not Alan. No one.”

  I nod, blinking back the well of hot tears that threaten to spill over. I spent so long not trusting anyone, not allowing myself to trust in anything other than myself, that it’s still weird to hear it. Even though they’ve proved themselves over and over again, a small part of me still wants to shut down. To not trust, not give in.

  “You’re not just one of us,” he says quietly, “you’re part of us.”

  Fuck.

  His words hurt, but in a good way. They hurt in a way that makes me lean forward and press my lips to his, wrap my hands around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him impossibly close. His hands twist around my body and slide down my back, grasping my hips and my ass, hiking me harder against him.

  When his tongue brushes against the seam of my mouth, I let him in without hesitation. His responding groan rumbles from his chest and across my body, making my chest tighten and my skin flush with heat. The budding ache that’s become so familiar blooms again, hot and heavy, in my stomach, in my chest, between my legs.

  We make out like a pair of horny teenagers, and even though Gray and I have kissed before, even though we’ve fucked before, this time it’s something different. I can feel it in every fiber of my body, in the steady thrum of his heart against my heart.

  The air is cool against my skin, and even though we’re out of sight on this rooftop, I can hear the hum and buzz of students moving around the campus below us, talking and laughing and calling out to each other.

  But I’m only vaguely aware of any of that. All the rest of my attention is focused on Gray and the demanding pressure of his lips on mine.

  Our bodies are grinding against each other, and I can feel the hard bulge of his cock as he works his hips against mine. He nips my lower lip, and I grab his ass, dragging him even closer to me. We’re both sucking in heavy gasps of air, and as heat streaks through me, I realize in a rush that we’re both going to come soon.

  The chemistry and need between us is so basic, so primal, that we’re about to come just from dry-humping against a door.

  I want to feel Gray come apart. I want to hear the low sound he makes when he com
es. Fuck, that sound alone would be enough to make me come. But I want to feel him inside me when he does.

  Maybe someday we’ll stop giving in to this wild, dangerous thing between us. Maybe someday we’ll stop fucking in bathrooms and stairwells and on rooftops. Maybe we’ll eventually stick to the bedroom like a responsible, well-behaved couple.

  But I fucking doubt it.

  Wedging my hand between us, I shove it down the front of his pants and slide my fingertips over Gray’s cock. He shudders against me, biting my lower lip hard enough that he almost breaks the skin. He pulls away just enough to give us both room to maneuver, and then we’re scrabbling at each other’s clothes, fingertips fumbling with buttons and zippers and fabric.

  As I shove his pants down low on his hips, letting his cock spring free, he stares down at my face from inches away, his blue-green eyes burning with inner fire. Then he kisses me once, hard and claiming, before spinning me around.

  My cheek presses against the cool metal of the door as Gray drags my pants and panties down. Leaving them around my thighs, he slides his hand back up, fingers delving into my pussy with a possessiveness that lights my blood on fire.

  I moan and arch my back, and Gray curses. His free hand comes down on my ass, and the sound of it is loud enough that I’m pretty sure even people on the ground must’ve heard it.

  Biting my lip to stifle my cry, I shudder against the door. A gush of arousal slips over Gray’s hand, and he groans in satisfaction. Withdrawing his fingers from my pulsing channel, he massages away the sting of his slap, smearing sticky arousal all over my skin. His cock notches at my entrance, and we both suck in a breath. Then he grabs my hips and pulls me backward at the same moment he drives his hips forward.

  It’s fast and rough and wild, both of us too overcome by the need to solidify our connection to worry about finesse or grace. I brace myself against the door, praying like fuck that a security guard isn’t about to burst through and find us as Gray thrusts into me in short strokes.

  The sound of our hips colliding is almost as loud as the sound of him slapping my ass earlier, but I’m beyond caring if anyone can hear it. I can’t even tell how loud or quiet I’m being anymore. My teeth are still clamped firmly around my lower lip, but I have a feeling muffled cries and grunts are escaping me anyway.

  When Gray comes, he bites down hard on the curve of my shoulder, his body hard against mine as he presses me against the door. The feeling of his cock throbbing inside, of his cum filling me up, is more than I can take. I whimper as I follow him into bliss, my eyes rolling back as my body sags against the smooth metal of the stairwell door.

  Gray wraps an arm around me, sliding his broad hand down my stomach until his fingertips find my clit. He strokes over it lightly, making my whole body shake beneath his.

  “I want to kill him, Sparrow,” he murmurs quietly, and I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about.

  I don’t have to ask if he’s serious either. I can hear it in the tone of his voice. He means every word.

  “I know.” My voice is raspy, still breathless and raw. “I know. But you can’t.”

  Because if he does, he’ll end up in jail or killed by Alan in retaliation. If he does, I’ll lose him.

  And I don’t think I could survive that.

  15

  I skip classes for the next few days. It’s exactly what I was trying to avoid, and the stubborn part of me hates letting Alan and his disgusting progeny claim even this small victory.

  But I'm not ditching out on my classes just so I can stay home and cower. I’m not doing it because I’m too scared to face Cliff again. I’m skipping class because I need to paint. I could feel it after the encounter with Cliff—there was something inside of me that needed to get out, that would tear me open and crawl out if I didn’t pick up my brush and paint it out first.

  I’ve always loved art, but I never thought painting would become a conduit for memories the way it has.

  I finally came to terms with the fact that I didn’t remember my past, convincing myself it didn’t really matter. But now it does matter. It matters more than anything in the world.

  We can’t play the same trick on Cliff twice. We tried to draw an incriminating statement out of him by letting him get me alone. But after I flipped out on him when my memory was triggered last time, I think he realized what I was trying to do. He cut himself off before mentioning the bunker, and I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.

  So in the absence of any other information or evidence, I’m focusing on getting my memories back. I know that just remembering what happened all those years ago isn’t going to give me solid evidence that I can take to the police, but it might lead us to the right place. If we can’t get Alan or Cliff on anything we have right now, we’re going to need new dirt.

  Maybe there’s something I saw in my past, something I remember, that could help us nail Alan. Maybe I have a reason locked away somewhere in my head—a reason why he kidnapped me, why he locked me away for so many years.

  Why did he want me? What would he have done with me if I hadn’t escaped? Reagan was there too, and now she’s going to Hawthorne just like I am. How the hell did she get out if she didn’t come with me when I escaped?

  My head spins with questions, but for once, I don’t block them out. I let them rush in like a flood, consuming me until my head feels like it’s about to fucking explode. I don’t think about what I’m painting, what colors I’m picking up with my brush, I just paint and hope that something comes out.

  Why was I kept in a bunker? What is Alan’s deal, what’s his game? How did he find me? Was I just a kid on the street he picked up? Why me?

  My paintbrush curves and swirls. I remember a woman. Snippets of memories come back, like puzzle pieces that all belong to the same puzzle but don’t connect anywhere. I remember a woman, but I don’t remember who she was. She used to come down to the bunker, and then one day she just stopped.

  Alan’s wife?

  It must’ve been. He said she died several years ago, so maybe the time when she stopped coming down was after her death. I remember her being kind to me, but the thought of her makes my stomach sour anyway. If she came down to visit us, that means she knew what Alan was doing. She knew and went along with it.

  And that makes her fucking evil, no matter how gentle her smiles were.

  My chest caves in a little as I look at the painting I just finished. None of the shadows and shapes in this one mean anything, but there’s a feeling that goes beyond literal interpretation.

  It’s pain. Death. Violence. Fear.

  My body trembles as I drag my eyes from that painting to the dozens of other ones propped up on nearly every surface of the room, lying on the floor to dry, the worst ones shoved into corners.

  This is what’s left now, isn’t it? Just me and my messed up head, me and my past.

  I hate it. I fucking hate all of it. I hate that something I love—my passion, my escape, my art—is becoming something that represents the part of me I despise. My past.

  My messy, fucked up past has already taken so much of my life away from me. And now this? Does it really have to take this too?

  I’m filled with the sudden violent urge to destroy all of my paintings, to rip them to shreds the same way whoever broke into my dorm that day did. It must’ve been Reagan, I realize in a grim moment of clarity. She probably hoped that would win her points with Alan too. That she could keep me from becoming a problem if she could wreck my art.

  It broke my heart to see my paintings scattered across the room in pieces. It sent me spiraling into a panic attack. But now I find myself searching the room for something I can use to destroy my own work—as if by obliterating them, I can nullify the painful memories, make them untrue somehow.

  Change my past somehow.

  I can’t find anything better than a pair of scissors, so I pick them up and grip the handle in one fist, raising the scissors like a dagger. I’m striding purposefully toward a ca
nvas that’s propped against one wall when a voice startles me.

  “You don’t have to do that, Sparrow,” Gray says quietly.

  I almost drop the scissors in surprise. I whip my head toward the sound of his voice in time to see him step inside the room and close the door behind him. When his eyes meet mine, they’re stormy but sincere.

  “Do what?” I ask, my voice rough and dull. It’s pretty fucking obvious what I was about to do, but I can’t quite bring myself to say it.

  “Try to destroy it. Let it destroy you.” He shakes his head, sympathy softening his expression. “I know it’s hard. I know you want to go to that place, but you can’t.” Pushing away from the door, he steps toward me. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Six months ago, I would have brushed him off. Told him to fuck off, told him that I was fine. Six months ago, I would have let myself slip into that numb little place where nothing mattered because nothing hurt. Where there wasn’t color or life or love or Sinners or Max. But I’m not fucking fine, and if he trusts me…

  I have to show him that I trust him.

  “Hey. Come here,” he murmurs, catching my free hand and pulling me into his arms. “Talk to me.”

  I suck in a breath, looking at the crimson painting again. The other paintings around the room are almost as hard to look at, although not all of them roil with the same raw pain.

  “I hate my art,” I say honestly, brutally. It comes out like a croak, painful to admit out loud. “I hate what it’s become.”

  “Why do you hate it?” He reaches up, brushing away a strand of blue hair from my face.

  I tell him everything I was feeling as he walked in—how it sucks that something that was once an escape for me has become a prison. Not that I hate being an artist, not really, but I hate that this is me. I hate that all the fucked up images on those canvases represent the heart of me. That those feelings are inside of me.