Page 119 of Sinful Lord

My neck snaps up. I sniff the cold air, then turn to Maksim.

“Do you trust me?” I ask him, tucking my gun away.

“No,” he quickly answers.

But I know it’s not a completely genuine response. Otherwise, why would he have saved my life? Surely, if he believes even a word of what I’ve told him, then he should believe he can find Melina on his own.

He doesn’t need me.

But I need him.

“Well, open up your heart a little, old man,” I say. Taking out my phone, I airdrop him my number. “Try and trust me, even if it’s only for a day.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what to do. But first, I’m going to need you to find some more of Timo’s men. See if you can get a hold of whoever tracked this devil of Berlin fucker down, or at least someone who knows what they found. I’ll give you a day, then let’s meet up again. Right back here, same time. Understand?”

I’m already starting to run when Maksim shouts after me.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I mumble to myself. But that doesn’t mean I’m lost.

No. I’m anything but fucking lost.

I know exactly what needs to happen next.

23

Melina

There’s no escape.

Unwrapping the towel from around my waist, I look to the bedroom door. It’s firmly shut. I don’t even have to try the handle to know it won’t move.

But it’s not just the door that has me feeling like a captive.

It’s Tytus.

I see him everywhere I look. The bed. The windows. The bathroom. The painting. They’re all reminders. And there’s no running away from them.

Trust me, I’ve tried.

The shower I just got out of was my third one since he left. Each time I step behind those frosted glass doors, I hope I might finally be able to escape him, even if just for an hour or so.

Usually, the hot water clears my mind. Instead, it did the exact opposite.

Even as I towel myself dry, a wetness lingers between my legs.

Tytus has captured me in more ways than one. And I know it’s wrong. This is all wrong. I want it to be wrong.

So why does the thought of being with him feel so right?

“Fuck,” I mumble, tossing the towel aside so I can dress into some ratty sweats. “What’s happening to me?”

When I turn from the closet, the answer stares me directly in the face.

The painting.