Make Me Shine (Six Silent Sins #1)

by Colt, Elodie

  I take my first tentative step into the lion’s den, holding my breath so hard, it stings in my chest. My foot doesn’t make a sound as it buries in the fluffy carpet. It feels as if I just walked into a portal only to be engulfed by a cozy, black cotton ball.

  Have you ever been in one of those soundproof rooms for audio recording? Where the walls are covered in acoustic foam panels with those pyramid-shaped bumps to cancel all noises and ensure absolute sound clarity?

  This is how it feels to be in here, as if a bubble just swallowed me, shielding me from the outside world. No sound can escape—no spoken word, no footstep, not even my fucking breath. And still, it’s all loud and clear inside these walls.

  My door is still open, so I guess it will stay that way until I return to the changing room. A glowing red light above marks it as my door, just like Kate showed me.

  I jolt my gaze to the soft blue light on the opposite door where a big shadow looms in front.

  Rosswell. In flesh and blood.

  Squinting, I try to make out his features, but other than his silhouette, I can only see the bracelet on his right wrist, one that also glows in the dark.

  How does breathing work again? Shit, I can’t remember. I can’t think. I can only blink as I desperately try to see and hear everything at once.

  “Breathe.”

  The command is low but so damn clear and echo-less in here, the word shoots an arrow straight into my belly, knocking the breath out of me in one, harsh blow.

  I fumble for anything to give me balance, trying to grip something more structural than foam or fur, and clutch the thin door frame while my heart gallops in my chest.

  It feels a little as if I just stumbled into a haunted house, waiting for a skeleton or zombie to rock up from behind me, and I gulp as my imagination starts to run wild.

  Dammit, it’s hot in here! My face is so flushed, the heat seems to seep from my eyes.

  “Hey, don’t pass out on me here.”

  I perk my ears like a lynx, tuning in to that low, alluring voice and letting it wash away my trepidation.

  “I’m just… adjusting,” I babble when I finally remember how to curl my lips the right way to speak words.

  The deep, masculine chuckle that follows floats like a soft wave over the walls, and my eyes slice toward the source.

  “It talks,” he says.

  I clear my throat, the serrating sound cutting through this soft space. “From time to time.”

  “Does it also move?”

  He can see my bracelet. He knows I’m gripping the door frame like a lifeline.

  “One step at a time, okay?”

  Another chuckle resounds as he takes three steps to the side and settles into what appears to be a fluffy seat, clearly not as daunted as me. “Take your time.”

  My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, and I unglue myself from the wall to venture farther into the room, taking in the huge king-size bed in the middle that molds into a raised dais. I have the strange urge to just spread my arms and let myself flop down, knowing the soft fabrics will cushion me like feathers.

  “So… you are Devonport,” Rosswell starts, alerting me to his presence once more.

  Again, I try to get a glimpse of his face, but to no avail. There’s not much I can make out other than his short hair. No dread-locks Bob Marley dude, then.

  “Well, obviously I’m not,” I say as I teeter around in the dark. “Just like you’re obviously not Rosswell.”

  “No, my mother was so kind not to punish me with a city name.”

  “No? Huh. You struck me as the Orlando guy.”

  “Well, damn,” he says. “Did my Florida accent give me away?”

  I start to laugh, my husky voice a rough contrast to his smooth baritone. “Just a shot in the dark.”

  He laughs, too, the sound strangely calming, and I find myself padding over to the chair opposite him. At least the guy isn’t a total bore. Of course, he isn’t. He’s supposed to be your perfect match, remember?

  “Are you Russian?”

  The question immediately shoots up my defenses. That fucking accent!

  “No.”

  “You have an accent,” he points out the obvious.

  Don’t drop your guard.

  “I could also be Pole or Ukraine or Romanian.”

  “So, you are from Eastern Europe,” he presses.

  “Yes,” I respond after a moment of hesitation, figuring it’s safe to disclose this snippet of information.

  His eyes are on me as I lower down on the seat opposite him, and it feels like sinking into a fluffy cloud with all the fur blanketing the cube-like chair.

  “Is this your first time at Silent Sins or have you already been a member?” he wants to know.

  “First time. They asked me to join their case study,” I say, surveying the room with all its glowing contours.

  “Me, too.”

  I nod, racking my brain about what to say to keep the conversation going. “I wonder how much money you have to fork out for a regular subscription. My accountant didn’t tell me.”

  “Between one to five thousand, depending on your dating frequency,” he says flat out as if it’s no big deal.

  Five thousand bucks just for some evening entertainment? Ridiculous.

  I purse my lips, my eyes traveling over his silhouette. He’s got that air around him that clings to people with power. People with money.

  “Are you rich?”

  “No.”

  His abrupt and almost sharp answer signals that he’s lying, and this is when I realize something. Silent Sins is a game. A game that’s called ‘Catch my lie.’ A game where you can set the rules.

  ‘You can be whoever you want in here,’ Kate had said, ‘be it the sweet girl next door or the dominant mistress.’

  Who do I want to be? I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not. I want to be me. Just without the shit no one needs to know.

  “You’re lying,” I prod at last.

  “What makes you think so?”

  I keep my answer to myself this time. Someone from the middle class would have sounded shocked, not speak about money as if five thousand were merely fifty dollars. And he’s wearing a suit. I knew it from the moment he sat down. The sound when he folded his legs, something that only sophisticated men do, was not scratchy like jeans but silky like suit pants.

  “Did you just come from work?” I continue with my interrogation.

  “Yes.”

  “So, you have to wear suits for work.”

  I can hear him smile. I don’t know how; I just can.

  “I do. What do you wear for work?”

  Huh, an interesting question. One that tells a lot about a person. There are many things I could say right now, like ‘aprons’ or ‘scrubs’ or ‘dirty overalls,’ but I decide to stick to the truth for now.

  “Cookie pants.”

  “What the hell are cookie pants?” He snickers and rests his forearms on the fleecy table, leaning closer but still keeping a safe distance.

  “Pants with a waistband that stretches when you eat too many cookies.”

  “Do you have to eat a lot of cookies at work?”

  A secret grin forms on my face when I recall how I wolfed down an entire box of cookies while I was working on my translations today.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “It doesn’t show.”

  I throw him a wary glance, although it’s not as if he can see my face.

  “How would you know? You haven’t touched me yet.”

  “Would you let me?”

  My brain puts on the brakes, and I pause. I have to tread carefully around this guy. He’s forcing me out of my shell a tad too fast.

  “So, you’re that kind of guy,” I mumble with a scoff.

  He cocks his head, fumbling with something at his throat that makes a low tinkling sound, like a necklace.

  “What kind of guy?”

  “The one who counters questions with questions
.”

  “And you are that kind of girl who likes to evade them,” he concludes with a click of his tongue.

  “I thought that was what Silent Sins is,” I muse. “Evading questions. Concealing your identity. Leading the other on a merry chase.”

  “You can try,” he says with a cocky laugh. You can try, but I’m going to see right through you, is what he meant.

  He rises to his feet, and I become stock-still, half-expecting him to get too close, but he glides by and halts in front of a rectangular, furry box. I clock his movements with laser-precise focus as he leans down to open it, and a hiss escapes.

  “A fridge?” I ask in surprise.

  “Yep. And champagne in a plastic bottle.” He fishes out a tapered bottle and what looks like two champagne glasses, or rather plastic cups, with glowing rims. “Want one?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He cocks his head, his eyes on me as if waiting for something.

  “Would you lend me a hand, Devon?”

  Translation: Do you dare to come closer?

  “Okay, Ross.”

  My steps are cautious, my poise not nearly as confident as his as I close the distance between us. He offers me a cup, and his fingers brush mine for a fleeting moment. The brief connection is eerily intense, the sensation coming from the simple touch amped up by the lack of eyesight.

  Holding the bottle with one hand, he tries to pop it open, but it doesn’t seem to be that easy. It turns out that the cap has to be twisted off like a cheap beer.

  “Seriously?” he huffs, and I snort.

  “Classy.”

  A sudden whoosh makes me jump back, and Ross yelps as the champagne bursts from the bottle, liquid spilling high and wide.

  “Well, shit.” He rubs a hand over his wet suit jacket, and I crack up as he tries to dab it dry with his sleeve. He shakes his head. “Finally, she warms up to me. A pity I had to ruin my suit first.”

  I am warming up to him, am I?

  “You can clean yourself up in your changing room,” I say with a giggle. “Or you can just, you know… rub yourself against a wall.”

  “I’d rather rub you against a wall.”

  The cup nearly slips from my hand as he fills it with champagne. Damn, he’s got flirting down to an art, and with that sexy drawl, it’s all I can do not to play into his hand too fast.

  “So sure already?” I tease, but I have to admit, the thought isn’t a majorly disturbing one.

  “We’re a ninety-four percent match,” is his answer.

  “Only six percent missing.”

  “Yeah. Only six percent missing...” He scoffs, raising his cup to clink it with mine, but I hesitate.

  “You sound disappointed,” I say. “Not the ranking you expected?”

  “What? No, I…” He fumbles with something that I assume is a tie, and it’s the first time I see a crack in his composure. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s just say, it’s an inside-joke. One I might tell you another time.”

  Raising his cup, he waits for me to accept his peace-offering.

  “Okay.”

  We clink our cups, the plastic making a dull donk, and it’s only when I take my first sip that Ross does the same. The sparkling liquid bubbles down my throat. I’m half tempted to see if there’s also a vodka bottle in the fridge, but I don’t want to crush my I’m-not-Russian pretense yet.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” he prompts after a moment of silence.

  “Like?”

  “Whatever you want to share.”

  “Okay, uhm…” I scratch my nose, thinking about something personal but ordinary. “I like doing yoga.”

  “Are you good at it?”

  His question takes me off guard, and I blurt out my next words, forgetting my filter-rule altogether. “You’ll have to figure that out yourself.”

  I can sense the skin around his lips stretching in a shit-eating grin.

  “What about you?” I shoot out right after, hoping he’ll let me off the hook.

  “Me? I’m not good at yoga.”

  I snort out a laugh. “I mean, what are you doing to stay fit?”

  He rubs a finger over his brow, the movement drawing my gaze to his sturdy shoulders. “I play Segway Polo.”

  O-kay...

  I wrinkle my nose, lost on words. “Uh, sounds…”—snobby and pretentious and super boring—“weird.”

  His shoulders start to shake with suppressed laughter, and I realize he just made a joke.

  I smack my lips. “You had me there.”

  The glow of his bracelet vanishes as he buries his hand in his pocket. “I’m a runner. I do my rounds every morning along with some weight exercises.”

  Now, that sounds more like him. I think.

  A beeping sound fills the space, and I startle, nearly dropping my cup.

  Ross chuckles. “Jumpy, are we?”

  “What the hell was that?”

  “The timer on the bracelets.”

  Lifting my hand, I glance down at my bracelet. I hadn’t even noticed there was a digital timer. It seems we have ten minutes left. Wow, that hour passed quickly.

  Long fingers touch mine as Ross takes the cup from my hand, and my gaze snaps up to him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do you agree on a date?” he asks as he sets both our cups aside.

  My mouth opens but shuts again. A date means sex, in general. You’re not obliged, of course, but it’s expected. After all, that’s what Silent Sins is.

  Don’t pretend you don’t want to get laid.

  “Say yes.”

  His voice hits a spot between my belly and my lower region, coaxing the next word from me before my brain is able to catch up.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m sure you won’t deny me a sample,” he drawls.

  Sample? What the hell does that mean?

  My pulse flutters as he steps closer, commanding my space, and it’s only when he towers over me that I notice he’s got a few inches on me. How tall is he? Six-two, six-three?

  He lifts a finger and traces a path down my hairline, leaving tingles in its wake. Leisurely, he explores every inch of my face, from my arched eyebrows, to the length of my nose, and down to my lips. Then, he lifts a strand of my hair and leans in, his lips hovering over my neck as he draws in a slow breath while I skip mine altogether.

  “You’re a biker,” he says out of nowhere.

  “What?” How the hell did he figure that out? I didn’t forget to put down my helmet, now, did I?

  “I can smell it. Oil… gasoline...”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Take the bus next time, idiot!

  His chuckle vibrates all the way down to my collarbone, and I close my eyes as his alluring voice washes over my senses. “I like it.”

  As if to make a point, his large hand buries into my wild mane. Every hair on the nape of my neck stiffens. There’s a barely audible, metallic clinking sound next to my ear, telling me he’s wearing at least two rings on his fingers.

  “What kind of bike are you driving?” he asks in a low voice.

  “A black one with two wheels,” is my vague response, and he chuckles while the tip of his nose brushes over the sensitive skin on my neck. I keep all the air in my lungs as I try to repress the shiver shooting down my spine.

  “Breathe,” he reminds me, and the second I exhale, he seizes the chance and locks his lips onto mine.

  My first kiss with a man since a small forever.

  My first kiss with a total stranger.

  My first kiss with a guy who tastes so fucking delicious, I want to die on an overdose.

  His mouth is soft with a plump lower lip skimming over mine. My cheek chafes against his, one that is covered in a stubble and molds into a square jaw. The kiss is guarded, our lips hesitant as we explore the chemistry, but it doesn’t take us long to give in to the sensation.

  And the moment he flicks his tongue inside my mouth, a switch flips in my f
reaky brain, and I lose all inhibitions.

  My hands shoot out to clutch his neck, eager to drink him in and swallow him whole. I plunder his mouth with a passion I’ve suppressed for years, and now the dam has broken. A helpless little sound escapes me, and Ross kisses me with more fervor, capturing my face with both hands.

  The second alarm goes off, and the annoying beep is my wake-up call.

  Dazed, I jerk back my head.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I mumble as I wiggle out of his hold. “I don’t know what—”

  “I do,” he growls, yanking me back and reclaiming my mouth as if he has all the right to do so.

  But I don’t find any reason to complain, not when he swivels me around and boxes me in against the nearest wall, my back hitting fur and fluff. A strand of hair flips from his forehead onto my lashes, and I suck air through my nose, breathing him in while he consumes my mouth. Shit, that man smells like a bottle of the finest Vodka Beluga Noble—all delicate oak notes with a whiff of citrus and honey. Spicy and utterly addictive.

  After one last duel of our tongues, he eases our lips apart and leans his forehead against mine. Our breath mingles as we both gasp for air.

  “See, you rubbed me against the wall after all,” I say with a cheeky grin, but it dies down the second he makes a point by pressing his erection into my belly.

  “I hope I can rub you a lot more in the future,” he purrs, but before I can process his words, he flicks my nose in goodbye. “Until next time, Devon. Dream of me.”

  My name isn’t Devon, I want to retort but bite down on my tongue.

  Devon is my name when I step into this room.

  Ella is my name when I return to reality.

  And the name they’re going to carve into my tombstone, well, that one is long dead.

  Fate has a twisted sense of humor. I knew that ever since the fucking number six started to reign over my life.

  I once read that six is the number of completeness. Funny, because it always felt as if something was missing in my life. A huge chunk of essence I had yet to find.

  The first Silent Sins meeting was… a surprise. Actually, more like a shock wave that rocked me to the core.

  Three days after I met the girl who’s supposed to be my six-percent-missing match, I still can’t shake the notion that this is the beginning of something huge.