Page 93 of Sinners Atone
“Hides the blood stains.”
“Wait—I thought you’d never killed anyone?”
As I turn to pin her with a blistering glare, the wind whips her hair and a strand hits the corner of my mouth like a stray bullet.
A faint taste of her sweet shampoo snaps my last nerve.
I kill the engine so fast the boat lurches forward. Yanking the key from the ignition, I palm the dash, painting it with heavy breaths.
I’m rigid from my shoulders down to my boots.
Whatever she’s doing, it’s pissing me off. I scared the shit out of her, and now she’s making small talk?
I glare down at her shadow on the dash and contemplate my next move.
I don’t even need to ask Denis to pry; I could just choke the secret out of her. Scratch the itch and breathe a sigh of relief as her body breaks the water’s surface.
I know I’m bluffing myself just even thinking about it. Her shadow alone makes my chest feel too tight in my shirt. It’s tiny and five shades lighter than mine, and the mere sight reminds me of the foreign flicker of guilt I felt slamming down the lid of my trunk on her screams.
A second option is hard to come by; I’m too distracted by the sound of her heavy breaths in my ear. Then her shadow shifts toward mine, just an inch, and my mouth moves without consulting my brain.
“We never finished lesson two.”
Her breaths cease. “What?”
With a sharp inhale, I slowly return to my full height, glance up at the sky, and curse the sun for shining and myself for being born with the Devil on my back.
Then I stoop to grab the moor line.
“Lesson two.” My voice is as rough as sandpaper. “We never finished it.”
She freezes. Her eyes slide down to my hand and grow wide. It’s an expression that’d make any man with a heart stop.
But she was right: I don’t have one.
“Was it the questions? I can totally stop with the questions.”
I take another step.
“Wait,” she yelps, throwing her palms up. “I’ll sit down and be quiet, I swear! You won’t even know I’m here!”
She hurdles backward over the front bench, and I follow her retreat. I’d be impressed she cleared it in those ridiculously high shoes if my vision wasn’t red at the edges.
I catch her wrist, then the other, and her muscles grow limp as I wrap the rope around them in a tight and unforgiving knot.
Annoyance sparks hot in my chest. She doesn’t put up a fight. No elbow striking, no annoying squeaking. She just stares like she’s catatonic, only moving when I tell her to.
“Lay down.”
She obeys.
She fucking obeys.
I crack my knuckles and lower myself to the bench, my hands still burning from the contrast of rough, weather-worn rope and delicate skin.
I clear my throat and rest my elbows on my knees. “Get out of it.”
Wrists clenched to her stomach, she gazes up at me, chest heaving under every breath. “I don’t know how,” she whispers.
