Page 78 of Made for Sinners

I exhaled slowly, my jaw tightening as I stared at the name on the screen.

She hadn’t done this.

Not intentionally.

Whoever had taken the money had used her as a shield, knowing I’d find the trail eventually. Knowing I’d suspect her.

It was a calculated move. A fucking brilliant one.

And it had worked.

I clenched my fists, my pulse thrumming with something dark and violent. My mind raced, replaying every moment, every accusation, every cruel word I’d thrown her way. I had been so sure. So goddamn sure.

And I had been wrong.

I had accused her. I had made her feel like she was nothing.

And now, after all of it, I knew the truth.

I had been played.

The realization settled over me like a weight, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

I had hurt her.

And I wasn’t sure if I could fix it.

The screen blurred as I stared at it, the rage simmering beneath my skin giving way to something colder, sharper. Whoever had done this—whoever had dared to useheragainstme—would pay. I’d tear them apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

But that didn’t change what I’d done to Emilia.

It didn’t erase the look in her eyes when I’d accused her.

The memory twisted in my chest, a dull ache that refused to subside. I had seen it—the hurt she tried to hide, the way she’d fought back tears with that defiant tilt of her chin. And I had ignored it.

I scrubbed a hand down my face, the guilt gnawing at the edges of my control.

A soft rustling sound pulled me from my thoughts.

I glanced up, my gaze drawn to the open doorway of the bedroom.

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the delicate strap of her dress, her movements slow and deliberate. The morning light poured through the tall windows, bathing her in a soft, golden glow that made her look almost ethereal. The curve of her shoulder, the delicate slope of her neck, the way the fabric skimmed and clung to her frame—it was mesmerizing.

She was breathtaking.

And she had no idea I was watching her.

I leaned forward slightly, my fingers curling against the edge of the desk as I watched her from across the room.

She tied her hair up, her fingers deftly twisting the soft waves into place, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Her movements were so natural, so unselfconscious, that it was impossible not to notice the details—the way her fingers brushed against her collarbone, the slight tilt of her head as she secured the last pin in place.

Fuck.

I wanted her.

Not just the raw, insatiable need that burned through me every time she was near. No, this was more. Stronger. I wantedall of her—all her fire, her defiance, her sharp tongue, and her vulnerable moments that she tried so hard to hide.

I wanted to lay her bare, to claim every inch of her, to remind her exactly who she belonged to. I wanted to feel her nails dig into my skin, to hear the way she said my name when she couldn’t hold back anymore.

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