by Eden Summers
Cole
Eden Summers
Contents
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1. Anissa
2. Anissa
3. Anissa
4. Anissa
5. Cole
6. Cole
7. Anissa
8. Anissa
9. Cole
10. Anissa
11. Cole
12. Cole
13. Cole
14. Anissa
15. Cole
16. Anissa
17. Anissa
18. Cole
19. Anissa
20. Cole
21. Anissa
22. Cole
23. Cole
24. Anissa
25. Cole
26. Anissa
27. Cole
28. Anissa
29. Cole
30. Cole
31. Anissa
32. Cole
33. Anissa
A Shot of Sin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Also by Eden Summers
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by Eden Summers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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1
Anissa
My shrink stares at me over the top of her reading glasses. “I think we need to dive deeper on this. You seem to be fixated on finding a reason for your feelings, and that’s okay. My concern, though, is that you’re focusing on something that doesn’t fit.”
“It does fit,” I grate through clenched teeth.
She doesn’t understand.
I can’t blame her. Since our sessions started I’ve given half-truths and misguided information in a vain attempt to keep the complexity of my time with Cole conniving Torian to myself. But it doesn’t stop me from needing answers.
“Anissa, I know this is hard, and we’re going to work through it together. I just need you to understand that what you feel for this man isn’t Stockholm syndrome—”
“That’s bullshit.”
She clears her throat and straightens in her chair. “Okay. Let me explain again and make things more clear. Stockholm syndrome is a condition where hostages develop a psychological alliance with their captors—”
“Which I did. I also felt sympathy for his cause, and negative feelings toward police and authorities, which is literally the textbook definition, is it not?”
“Somewhat. The problem is, you’re leaving out the fact that, even though you were taken against your will, you never truly feared this man.”
“Well, maybe when I initially made that admission I was wrong. Maybe deep down I did feel threatened.”
She quirks a brow and scribbles on her notepad. “So you believe he was going to kill you if you didn’t follow his commands?”
I glare, hating how my insides squeeze in denial.
Cole was never going to kill me. I know that with every breath I take. Yet it doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up on this diagnosis.
“You also said Stockholm could occur when the abuser opens up and shows kindness through the trauma. He did that. He told me things nobody else knew. And the isolation, too.” I push to my feet and pace her light grey rug. “You mentioned Stockholm happens when you’re isolated with your abuser. You don’t get more isolated than an island in the middle of nowhere.”
Now, that part I’m still not sure she believes.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she thinks I’m making this whole thing up.
“True.” She scribbles another note. “However, you would’ve needed to feel like there was no escape. And from what you’ve told me, you actually declined the offer to leave. He gave you the option and you decided to stay. Isn’t that right?”
Fuck.
“But couldn’t that have been a symptom of Stockholm itself?” I ask. “If I was already affected by it, and had these uncharacteristic feelings, of course I was going to stay.”
She leans forward in her chair, her pen poised an inch from the notepad teetering on her knee. “Why is this diagnosis so important to you? What will the label achieve?”
I pause, my feet planting an arm’s length from the shrink’s trusty sofa.
My pulse quickens. My fingers twitch at my sides.
I need the label because it would excuse my feelings. It would explain my obsession and justify why I can’t get a bloodthirsty criminal out of my head. Plastering the Stockholm sticker on my chest would help me understand why his world held a semblance of comfort and why my life now feels hollow. It should also dissolve the guilt I feel for my actions. My father would be so ashamed of me.
“Anissa?” She gives a placating smile. “Why do you need this?”
Because it would condone my stupidity. It would absolve me of all these insane thoughts about a man unworthy of my attention.
“It doesn’t matter.” I grab my purse from the sofa and start for the door. “We’re done here.”
“Wait. Our session isn’t over.” She stands, placing her pad and pen on the desk behind her. “We need to work through this.”
No, what I need is a diagnosis she won’t give.
What I need is something to help me understand why I can hate Cole with every breath, yet still tingle with warmth whenever I remember our time together.
Every memory is filtered through a haze of attraction.
Every moment—even those when he drugged, bound, and threatened me—are all relived with a sickening gravitational pull toward admiration. Or worse, lust.
It doesn’t make sense.
It’s not who I am.
“Thanks for your time.” I yank her door open and stalk toward the receptionist, holding out my bank card to pay before continuing my thunderous steps outside into the cool late afternoon air.
I can’t keep doing this.
I have to quit thinking of him. Thinking of us. Thinking there’s some stupid connection between me and a psychotic murderer when those reflections tear my ethics and principles to shreds.
He manipulated me.
Groomed me.
Just like his father did with all those stolen women he turned into sex slaves.
Cole instigated a mind game I couldn’t resist. And he won.
End of story.
I continue onto the footpath, thankful for the long walk home because, apart from alcohol, a casual stroll is the one thing capable of stabilizing my pulse.
If only I could find the peace I crave.
Insomnia would be a blessing right now. Instead I pass out nightly, the dreams of Cole luminous and palpable.
“Hey, Fox, wait up.”
I freeze at the sound of Anthony Easton’s voice behind me, my mindlessness temporarily interrupted. My
fellow FBI agent has been the only stability through this entire ordeal. He’s the one who convinced me not to go back to work until I’m ready, and I haven’t.
He’s the lighthouse in the storm. The steady shore.
And despite having limited knowledge of what happened between me and Cole, he’s intuitive enough to make sure he bad-mouths that motherfucker constantly, making me despise my inappropriate thoughts like a mentally stable person should.
But Easton also increases my self-loathing. Being around him, with his kindness and generosity, is a constant reminder that I crave the wrong things. He’s been my rock, yet I still fixate on poison-filled kisses from a predator.
I turn to find him strolling toward me, his suit crisp, his jawline covered in thick stubble, and those gentle eyes filled with concern.
“What are you still doing here?” I paste on a smile. “I told you I could walk home.”
“I know. But after dropping you off, I had nothing better to do, so I thought I’d wait around and give you a ride.” His gaze narrows. “You finished early, though. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. Apart from me and my shrink having a difference of opinion.” I force out a laugh. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.”
His expression softens, the kindness transforming to pity. “Is that a good idea? You need someone to talk to. It’s been weeks since you last ran into Torian and you’re still struggling to cope.”
No, not weeks.
He has no clue I had an unscheduled reunion with my satanic libido builder last night. On the side of the road. With a police officer present.
Penny, Decker’s sister, had needed help. The recently released sex slave had stolen a hitman’s car and wasn’t prepared to be targeted for the drive-by shooting that followed.
But that deluge of information is a rabbit hole I refuse to crawl into with Easton.
“It’s okay.” I continue along the sidewalk, determined to make my way home. “I’ll figure it out.”
“No, wait.” He rushes after me, his strong grip latching onto my wrist. “You’re not alone in this. Let me help.”
I stare down at the fingers gently embedded in my woolen sweater. I want to feel relief at his touch. Warmth. Affection. I wish something other than the need to compare would overwhelm me whenever he paid me attention, but that’s what it always amounts to.
I’m constantly pitting him against Cole and he never wins.
He’s not fierce enough. Strong enough. Possessive enough.
“You’ve already helped a whole heap.” I clasp my hand over his and squeeze. “And I’m thankful. But I’m going to be okay. I promise.”
He keeps scrutinizing me, his brows furrowing. “He really messed with you, didn’t he? Whatever happened between the two of you is far bigger than you’ve let on.” He takes another step, bringing us a foot apart, face-to-face. “I don’t know why you’re protecting him.”
“I’m not.” Keeping my lips shut has nothing to do with Cole’s safety and everything to do with averting humiliation.
And shame.
I regret everything that happened between me and the manipulative mastermind. If I could, I’d return to the day of Cole’s uncle’s funeral and catch myself before the temptation to taunt him became too much.
Instead of flaunting my authority, I would’ve kept to my job, helping my team arrest his father. I shouldn’t have become sidetracked by the gorgeous man with the sinister soul.
My stomach flips, protesting the thought.
Goddamnit.
I can never win. It’s as if Cole’s games never stopped, only became internalized. Now my thoughts wage war against my feelings. My morals battle for supremacy over my yearning.
I’m a fucking nut job in need of sedation—I’m just too stubborn to down the bitter pill.
“Why don’t we have dinner tonight?” I stand taller, determined to get a hold of myself. “My treat. We can watch a movie and have a few drinks…”
My insides do that flippy, uncomfortable thing again, warning me against a bad decision. Or maybe hating the possibility of being cut off from a long-standing addiction.
“In your apartment?” he asks. “Again? You don’t want to go out and grab a bite from a restaurant this time?”
Like a date? A proper, kiss-you-at-the-end-of-the-night situation?
My brain fumbles for an answer, my hand dropping from his as my internal battle intensifies. I should do this. I need to do this.
Stockholm syndrome be damned.
Heated memories forsaken.
Instead, I wince, my fucking weakness claiming victory as I fail to vocalize an affirmation. “Let me think on it.” My pulse increases, the pull of want and need dragging me in two different directions.
He’s handsome. So goddamn handsome, with his sky-blue eyes and slick blond hair.
But he’s not what I hunger for. He’s buttered toast pitted against the extravagance of fine dining.
Poisoned fine dining.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward his car and backtracks. “I’ll convince you while I give you a ride home. I can be persuasive when I want to be.”
2
Anissa
Easton didn’t change my mind. He did, however, order the pizza and pick the movie.
He was also the one who made the decision to sit side-by-side on my sofa, putting me on edge with his proximity.
Actually, that could’ve been my fault.
After genuine conversation and a few laughs at the dinner table, liquid courage had me plopping my ass on the three-seater with him soon following to sit beside me. I’d thought it would be nice to see what happened.
Would he make a move?
Would I like it?
I should’ve kept with tradition and maintained my distance by claiming the recliner. Now his arm is spread behind my neck, his body so close I can smell his woodsy aftershave, and I can’t handle the apprehension that smothers me.
He crosses his legs, his attention remaining on the television. “You’re tense.”
No shit.
We’ve worked together for too long, our relationship kept strictly professional since the moment we met, and this, right here, feels like a huge leap into high school awkwardness.
He gently massages his fingers against my shoulder. It heightens my sensitive nerves.
“I, umm… I’m still thinking about my shrink. I should find a new one.” I clear my throat, my heart demanding I scoot away but I grin and bear the discomfort. “You’re right about needing someone to talk to.”
This is Easton.
Straightlaced, by-the-book Anthony Easton.
If he knew half the things I’m guilty of he wouldn’t be rubbing me like this. In fact, I’m certain he’d be disgusted. Those kind eyes would turn feral, stripping layer upon layer of my already flimsy pride.
“Want me to ask around and get some recommendations?” He turns to me, his knee brushing my thigh. “I think one of my high-school buddies sees someone on Billow Street.”
I clear my throat again, the tickle at the back of my tongue becoming more persistent. “Thanks. But I’d prefer to find someone on my own. I don’t want to rush into it.”
“Sure. That makes sense.”
We fall silent, my attention returning to the television where actors speak words I don’t bother listening to as the air turns into pockets of fragile glass around us.
I don’t want to budge an inch from fear of destabilizing the atmosphere. I really don’t.
Then again, maybe I should.
Maybe I need to beat back this arduous twist of my insides and take a leap of faith.
I should kiss him. Bite the bullet. Dive straight in, getting the experiment over and done with. Because so far, it’s working. I haven’t thought about Cole in hours. I’ve been successfully distracted. Until right this second, when his face stares back at me with each blink.
Easton chuckles.
I stiffen
. Can he read my mind?
I’d almost believe he’s capable if his eyes weren’t glued to the television. He must be laughing at the movie.
The coaxing massage against my shoulder grows more adamant, awakening tiredness in my weary bones.
I can do this. I should do this.
A peck on the lips isn’t the end of the world. And my loco, bat-shit-crazy status gives me a neon-sign excuse if I fail this crash test.
It’s a win-win.
So why does kissing someone other than Cole seem like a shitty consolation prize? The bushfire flames of attraction are nowhere in sight. Lust isn’t anywhere on my radar.
I clear my throat again, pissed off at the relentless tickle, and turn to face my friend.
He remains lazily focused on the screen, but I know he’s aware of my train of thought. His understanding is subtle in the slight lift of his chin, the gentle detour of his hand to the back of my neck.
His fingertips graze my skin, up and down, inspiring goose bumps. It might not be the ungodly heat that engulfed me whenever Cole—
No.
No.
I’m not going there.
This is about Easton. Moving onward and upward. Reclaiming my moral high ground instead of slumming it in the streets.
I suck in a deep breath and regroup, relaxing my muscles one at a time—jaw, shoulders, stomach. I force myself to focus on the handsome man before me with his warm tan and gelled hair.
Finally, my throat tightens with anticipation. My mouth dries. I lick my lips to ease the discomfort and steel myself against what I’m about to instigate.
