A Necessary Sin (The Sin Trilogy 1)

I shrug when I finish and curtsy.

“You’re full of trickery, Bonny Bleu.”

“You should probably know it won’t be the last time.” Total truth.

Sin takes the violin and bow from me, placing both on his desk. He glides his hands down the satin gown over my hips and rests them at my lower back. “I’ve never had so much in common with a woman, or with anyone for that matter. Not even Leith or Jamie.” He’s holding me close and looks as though he wants to kiss me but doesn’t. Instead, he studies my face, beginning at my eyes. “I’m not sure what to make of it.” He strokes the back of his fingers down my cheek and rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You don’t need me to protect you, and while I love that about you, I hate it as well. I sometimes find myself wishing you needed me, maybe just a little.”

I emasculate Sin, just like every other man I encounter. It’s my curse. My durability is going to cause me to blow this if I’m not careful. “I can be your china doll.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for, Bleu. I don’t need to break you to feel like a man.”

Then what does he want from me? “I don’t understand.”

“I want to be your protector. I’m asking you to let me do that if the time comes.” I think there’s something he isn’t telling me.

I’ve never had a man, other than Harry, who wanted to protect me. The turmoil I’m experiencing is bewildering. He’s asking me to submit to him. While that’s everything I’ve never wanted, it’s all I yearn to do when I look into his eyes.

“I’m yours to keep safe.” My submission to Sin feels like a literal door swinging open to a world I’ve never known while the one behind me slams shut.

“It doesn’t escape me that your agreement to this is a concession.” He brushes his lips across mine. “This isn’t just about protection. I want to take care of you in every way possible.”

“You already do.”

He pulls me close and squeezes my bottom while tugging my lower lip with his teeth. “Go get yourself ready. I’m taking you out today.”

“Where are we going?”

“Breakfast first, and then I’m giving you a proper tour of the city. Wear comfortable shoes.”

“Good. I can put my camera to use. It’s been collecting too much dust.”

* * *

We’re sitting at a booth table at the Royal McGregor looking at the menu. “What will you be having?”

My options are limited, as always. I’m not a huge fan of Scottish cuisine. “I think I’ll go with the French toast.”

He peers over his menu at me. “I brought you out today to show you authentic Edinburgh and you’re going to start the day with French toast and Canadian maple syrup? I don’t think I have to tell you that’s not the least bit Scottish. You should be having the traditional breakfast.”

I look at what it includes. “Your sausage isn’t like what I eat at home. It’s … ugh. And your bacon isn’t bacon. It’s ham from a weird part of the pig. And you can forget me touching black pudding or haggis. I’m not eating anything that includes blood or intestines. I don’t do that at home and I’m not doing it here. French toast and coffee are safe, so that’s what I’m going with.”

He places his menu on the table. “You can try mine.”

He’s wrong if he thinks I’ll be budging an inch. “Oh … no, sir. That won’t be happening.”

He smirks, appearing confident he’ll have his way. “We’ll see.”

We’re halfway through our meal when he makes his first offer of haggis. I don’t as much as glance in his direction. “Try it. You’ll love it.”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on, Bonny.”

“I said no.” He places a small portion on my plate and my stomach immediately churns. “Get that off my plate. It’s going to make me sick.”

He smirks at me. “You’re being childish.”

The churning is worsening. “This isn’t taking care of me.” I bring my napkin to my mouth hoping the nausea will pass.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I point in the general direction of my plate. “That! It’s grossing me out.” I toss my napkin over my plate because now I have an aversion to everything on it. “Excuse me.”

I get up from the table and go to the restroom. I pat my face with a cool, wet paper towel and breathe in deeply and slowly.

I must’ve been in the restroom for a while when I hear a knock at the door. “Bonny? Are you all right ?”

“I’m fine. Give me another minute and I’ll be out.”

Of course, he hasn’t returned to his seat when I open the door. He’s standing there waiting for me.

I’m pissed off so I walk past him but he grabs my arm. I yank it from his grasp. “You’re a total ass for doing that. I told you that stuff made me sick.”

He cups his palm around my cheek. “Are you going to be okay?”

I’ve always had a strange aversion to some types of meats and the medication I take for my insulin resistance with the polycystic ovarian syndrome isn’t helping. “It’s debatable, thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry. I thought we were having fun. I had no idea it would make you feel ill.” He puts his curled finger under my chin and lifts, forcing me to look at him. “How can I make it better?”

“I’d like some water with more than five ice cubes.” No way I can look at that stuff again. “And have those plates taken away from the table.”

“They’re already gone.” He loops his arm through mine and leads me back to the table. “She needs water over a full glass of ice, please.”

I feel somewhat better after a few sips. “I think I’m okay now.”

He cups his hand over mine. “We can tour the city together another day if you don’t feel well.”

“I’m really fine. It’s passed.”

“I promised you not even two hours ago I was going to take care of you and now you’re ill as a result of something I did. I feel bad about that.” He shakes his head as he looks down at his hand covering mine. “That doesn’t instill huge confidence about my ability to care for you.”

“It was a piece of haggis—not the end of the world. And I take medicine for the ovarian stuff. It’s a diabetic medication for insulin resistance. It often nauseates me so it’s likely that contributed as well.” I lean forward and grasp the back of his neck, pulling him close for a kiss, not giving a damn who’s watching. I press my forehead to his. “Not another word about it,” I whisper. “Got it?”

He nods, causing my head to move with his. “Got it.”

We leave Royal McGregor’s, walking hand in hand up the steep incline of the Royal Mile. We go into several shops along the way but most are full of souvenirs and things you buy when you know you’re leaving soon. I can’t br

ing myself to purchase anything because it feels symbolic of my approaching departure.

“MacAllister is Scottish. Have you ever studied your genealogy?”

Harry has done some research into his family tree but I’m not a MacAllister by blood, so none of what he has learned applies to me. “No.”

“You should. I bet you’d find some interesting facts.”

“I should. I have lots of free time on my hands, being a claimed woman and all.” I feel a few scattered raindrops against my face. I look to the sky. It’s suddenly dreary, the complete opposite of the way it looked only fifteen minutes ago. I’ve learned that’s typical weather for these parts. “Looks as though we’re going to get wet.”

“It rarely lasts for long. If it becomes heavy, we’ll duck into a store or covered alley until it clears.”

The raindrops fall faster as we trudge up the hill. “I’m glad I didn’t work on my hair and makeup for an hour.”

“You’re beautiful without all the fuss.” He gives me a crooked grin. “Come on. I know a place we can go.”

He leads me into a dark, cool alley with seats burrowed into the stone. “We’ll wait here until it stops.” He fidgets with my hand, running his thumb back and forth across the top.

“Will you tell me about losing your leg?” The records I have about Sin’s shooting are obviously incorrect since none mention an amputation.

“What do you want to know about it?” Everything.

“What were the circumstances?

“I was ambushed by a rival alliance called The Order. They had uzis. My leg was no match for that. It was barely hanging on when I arrived at the emergency room. There was no saving it.” That sounds gruesome. And it’s the kind of danger he faces on a regular basis.

“I don’t understand how you’ve kept it secret.”

“It wasn’t difficult. Dad sent me to Lucerne for months. I was rehabilitated by the best doctors in Europe. I could walk almost flawlessly by the time they finished my physical therapy.”

“It must have been awful.” He never exhibits signs of PTSD. I wonder if he sees a therapist.

“It wasn’t pleasant.”