The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

Seb went to stand and a burst of adrenaline sent me into a panic. I scrabbled for a hold and caught the hem of his shirt. I held it in a death grip, as I vibrated with the very real fear Seb might walk out of my bedroom and decide he never wanted to see again.

“Don't leave!”

With me clinging to his clothes, Seb sat back on the bed. He turned to look at me, his forehead creased with indecision. I watched Seb shuffle through a half-dozen emotions. Should he run? Stay? Talk? Shout? Cry? Pull out all his hair? As I stared into his eyes, I noticed one of them twitched. The tiny muscles spasmed every second or two, over and over.

“Please, don’t go,” I begged, officially shedding my last bit of pride. “We don't have to talk. I… Will you…” My heart thundered, nearly drowning out my voice. “Will you stay?” Seb glanced at the door. It didn’t take a genius to guess why he hesitated. “Rocco knows better than to bother us,” I explained. “I don't make false threats, and he knows it. The last thing Rocco wants is for me to move out. He'll be good.”

Of that, I was confident. Hey, at least I was confident about something, because lord knows I had no flipping idea what I was doing when it came to Seb or anything else in my messed up life.

In a tender gesture, Seb reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. I melted under the heat of his stare. Not heat, warmth. Like he cared. And in his own way, he had to. Seb wouldn’t put up with Rocco’s crap to get to me, wouldn’t bleed for me, if he didn't care.

In the hopes I could persuade Seb not to go, I pulled up my feet and lay back. “Please. Will you lay down with me?”

I swallowed and patted the spot next to me. Seb squirmed and his eye continued to twitch. Then, decision made, he toed off his shoes and joined me on the bed. After positioning his tall body next to me, he grabbed me by the waist and proceeded to push and pull and maneuver me how he wanted, until he was spooning me from behind. Seb’s long fingers fanned out across my hip, fingertips pressing into the flesh. The possessive gesture put a lump in my throat.

“I know we have to talk about the baby,” he whispered, his breath on the back of my neck. Goose bumps pricked my skin and I shivered. “And we will. Later. Turn off your brain and get some sleep. I can practically hear the gears spinning.”

I huffed out a laugh and closed my eyes, surprised to find I was able to relax, even with the odds that Rocco was lurking on the other side of my bedroom door somewhere around

eighty-twenty. He could go pound sand for all I cared. I was warm and safe and happy.

As I drifted off, a smile tugged at my lips. When it came to Seb, I still had my doubts, but they no longer seemed all that important.

Sleep came almost instantly.

Seb

Kylie's breathing grew slow and even, and I felt the anxiety leech from her body with every rise and fall of her chest. I was glad she was getting some sleep, because I wasn’t. No way was I going to close my eyes. I’d run for president of the Justin Bieber fan club before I let my guard down with Rocco Calloway skulking around nearby. Bastard probably had his ear pressed against the door. If I had any idea Kylie lived with him… her, ugh, brother, I wouldn't have come.

Fuck it. That was a lie.

Even if I knew about Calloway, I wouldn’t have done anything different. Except maybe been prepared for Sasquatch to attack me the second he answered the door. Sucker punched me right in the damn mouth.

My blood pressure rose. I clenched my jaw and shoved Calloway out of my head. I didn’t want to think about him. Instead, I propped an elbow so I could watch Kylie sleep, a first for me, mostly because I was gone the second I busted my nut. I would have made an exception for Kylie, but she took off before sleeping arrangements were discussed.

I blinked away the gut-clenching memory and soaked in everything Kylie. She looked even more breathtaking in her sleep, her features relaxed, body pliant, and those thick lips slightly parted. More beautiful than at that idiotic team dinner, the one I’d been arm twisted into attending. The fact that in her sleep, she outshone the ball-tingling, backless black dress she wore that night, spoke volumes as to how stunning Kylie truly was. I studied the thick fan of dark lashes splayed across her cheek and the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

My mind was blown. It wasn’t possible that the angelic vision in my arms came from the same gene pool as the growling six-and-a-half-foot Yeti who lived to antagonize me at any and every given opportunity.

Based on the shadows under Kylie’s eyes, she needed to sleep, but I couldn’t stop from reaching out to lightly skim my fingers down her bare arm. Chill bumps pricked and I smiled. I waited for the chance to see her again, and had no intention of wasting the opportunity. I raked my greedy gaze up and down her body, intent on studying each and every square inch, to memorize every detail.

My leisurely, somewhat erotic, inspection came to a screeching halt when I reached her waist. I sucked in a sharp breath and slowly slid my hand toward the small but noticeable bump. My fingers flexed. For whatever reason, I had to touch it. To make sure it was real and not some fucked up dream I pulled out of my ass. My hand trembled, hovering an inch or so above it. The temperature in the room rose and my skin grew clammy. I swallowed.

As much as I wanted to pretend none of it was happening, I couldn’t deny the truth. It literally stared me in the face. Under that subtle swell was a baby. An actual human being, growing as my hand hung in midair. My nerves unraveled faster than Colorado's first line defense whenever the puck crossed the blue line. I yanked my hand away and used it to swipe at the sweat beaded on my upper lip. Reality sank in and I started to freak out.

Careful not to disturb Kylie, I scooted off the bed and paced the room. Negative thoughts pelted my head like a sleet storm in Québec.

I scrubbed my hands down my face. I shouldn’t be there. I didn’t know anything about babies or parenting. The kid would end up just like me, FUBAR. I read that shit’s genetic or something. Christ. My mother died of alcoholism and a broken heart. After she was gone, every night Dad drank enough to tranquilize a fucking rhinoceros.

I tugged at the collar of my shirt. When did it get so fucking stifling in here? I gagged, suffocating on the thick heat, and sprinted for the door, focused on getting the hell out of there so I could breathe. Anything to release the pressure that clamped down on my lungs and stop my legs from giving out.

Hand wrapped around the doorknob, I glanced over my shoulder and gave Kylie one last, longing, look. A pang of despair hit as I took in her peaceful form. It felt like I was tearing apart, my soul ripping in half. Just thinking about Kylie made me bat shit crazy. Made the need to be near her or with her or anywhere in her general vicinity almost unbearable.

To willingly leave when I finally had her within reach? Virtually impossible.

The only thing to keep me from climbing back into bed and handcuffing her to me, was knowing she was way better off without me in her life. If I had anything to say about it, my kid wouldn’t be subjected to a childhood like mine—barely existing, in a constant state of fear, inundated with pain that never completely disappeared, regularly cornered and beaten like an animal until he snapped and was forced to take a life, all before puberty.

Scarcely a man and capable of committing an act of unimaginable violence.