Page 165 of Sinful Lies

She owned me in ways no one ever had, in ways I hadn’t even thought were possible.

I wasn’t just hers.

I was nowruinedfor anyone else.

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

“The one kiss that was stolen, was given in a lie.”

?Anthony Liccione

Jade

I woke up in Angelo’s bed, the sound of water running from the shower filling the silence. The curtains still couldn’t do their stupid job, letting the sun creep in and caress my skin.

I groaned, squinting at the clock on his nightstand. Noon.Great.

Dragging myself upright, I leaned against the headboard, wincing as my body protested. Angelo had wrung every last drop of energy out of me last night, like he was trying to leave an imprint of himself under my skin.

And judging by how I felt now? Mission accomplished.

Another groan slipped from my lips as I buried my face in the pillow, letting out a scream into it.

I’d crossed the line. Again. And again. And again.

Each time, I had sworn it was the last. That I’d slam the brakes, stop letting him twist me up inside. But every time, it had been the same. One touch, one look, and I’d caved like a fool.

It was maddening, infuriating, and worst of all…addicting.

Because I want to give you everything, Jade—everything you need, everything you crave—even if it means being at your mercy.

Honestly, who could resist that?

The first time I’d woken up here, weeks ago—after that godforsaken boar had ripped through the woods—I’d bolted. I hadn’t even looked back. I hadn’t been able to stand the suffocating weight of this space, how it had made me feel things I didn’t want to feel: self-loathing, a flicker of gratitude I hadn’t deserved, and something darker, stickier.

The second time had been no different.

But this time?

This time, I wasn’t running.

My legs screamed as I stood, the soreness between them raw. I limped to his dresser and yanked it open. Everything was lined up, ironed, and folded, like he was auditioning for a cleaning infomercial.Of course. Neat freak.

I grabbed a long-sleeved shirt and tugged it over my head. It hung loose, the fabric heavy with his scent, wrapping me up in him even when I didn’t want it to.

I waited until the sound of the shower filled the house before slipping out of his room. The door clicked shut behind me as I padded down the hallway, my bare feet brushing the icy tiles.

My destination was clear: the last door on the right.

The knob turned without resistance, and I slipped inside, my heart pounding like it might betray me. His office was… unexpected. A world away from the sterile perfection of the museum. This was a shrine to chaos: dark wood shelves crammed with miniature sculptures of Greek gods andgoddesses, a massive portrait of Cleopatra and Caesar glaring down from one wall, and above the desk, a Rembrandt—Retour du Fils Prodigue.

I was here to find what I needed—to finish this.

No more crossing lines.

No more games.

---