Unleashing Sin - A. M. Wilson Page 0,17

who it was.”

“Been here for twenty minutes,” I grunt through another swallow.

The anxiety etches itself in the crease of her brows and the frown of her lips. “Yeah…I was too scared to come check,” she says sheepishly.

My insides contract.

“I’ll whistle.”

Her face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

“When I come back, next time I’ll whistle.”

“What will you whistle?” she asks, stepping farther into the room.

I shrug. “Something. Like this,” I say, then demonstrate a three-note low whistle. I’m not stupid enough to do a catcall, and this isn’t the fucking Hunger Games. “Like that. Just think an intruder wouldn’t fuckin’ whistle. You hear that, that’s the all-clear.”

The girl smiles a shy smile. Her lips tip up, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. I don’t know if she even knows how to produce a genuine smile like that. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I go back to drinking while she edges herself farther into the room. When I go to pour myself another double, her quiet voice interrupts me. I look up to find her nearly right next to me on the couch.

“Do you have cat feet?” I ask a little drunkenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re so goddamn quiet I didn’t even hear you cross the room.” I sit back with a big swallow.

“I think it’s a learned skill.” The tone isn’t to be mistaken. She’s referring to sneaking around the traffickers.

I’m a fucking idiot.

“Sorry,” I grunt.

“It’s okay.”

Silence engulfs the two of us fucked-up people sharing a couch. So what do I do? Drink. Nothing breaks the awkwardness like a healthy dose of alcohol.

“Why do you do that?” She breaks the quiet.

My head turns slowly to take her in. She’s wearing another tee that’s way too huge, this one black, and a pair of flannel sleep pants. These seem to fit her better than the tee, so I’d guess that Elias picked them up from somewhere. She looks warm and timid, like a little, soft rabbit.

I realize I’m glaring when she cowers a little. “Sorry. Do what?” It doesn’t escape me that I’ve apologized twice now in the span of five minutes. I spend every minute of every day apologizing to Molly in my head, but I can’t remember the last time I uttered the words to another living human being.

“Drink. I mean, it seems like you’re drinking or drunk every time I see you. I don’t mean to call you out; I’m just curious why.”

The question angers me. My hands curl into tight fists. “Why the fuck do you care? It’s not any of your business.”

She scurries back against the arm of the couch, my words alone scaring the crap out of her. “It’s not, you’re right.” Her chest rises rapidly and falls slower with a long, deep breath. “All the men I’ve met in the past two years did nothing but drink. I can’t help but wonder if you’re one of them.”

The hand holding my glass of scotch freezes in midair. The breath I just took expands in my chest to the point it hurts, and I can’t take air in or let it out. I’m suffocating, choking on her words.

My back molars grind together so forcefully it’s a wonder one of them doesn’t snap right in half.

Using all my control, I force the air out through my nose. It’s a slow, painful process. Everything inside is screaming at me to let it out in a loud bellow of rage. My muscles tense with the desire to beat the fuck out of something. Before I break the glass, I lean forward and, as gently as I can manage in my drunk, furious state, I place it on the coffee table.

Only then do I move.

With perfect precision, I stand, plant a knee on the couch, and throw myself in the direction of the girl. An arm lands on each side of her, one on the arm of the couch and one planted in the backrest, caging her in. The girl’s eyes go wild with fear at my swiftness and proximity, but I don’t give a single fuck. Her words cut deep. So deep, I don’t think I can staunch the bleed.

Lowering my face to hers until there’s nothing more than a centimeter of space between our lips, I force her gaze to mine. She tries to hide her head, but I’m one step away from physically holding it in place.

“I’m a goddamn man. A man who lives and breathes life without anyone telling me what the fuck I need to do. I want to drink; I’m going to drink.