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.
No one wanted their child raised by a murderer, and that’s what I am. A murderer.
Kylie deserved better. Her kid deserved better. I closed my eyes, ignored the motherfucking twitch, twitch, twitch, and snuck out, leaving my heart behind.
The hall was creepy quiet. I tipped my head to listen. Nothing. I glanced around, convinced Calloway lay in wait, ready to pounce and finish what he started. Bring it on. Whatever Sasquatch dished out, I most certainly deserved. I thought of it as penance for ruining Kylie’s life. Hell, I welcomed the pain. Anything was better than the wrenching agony in my chest that left a hole in my cold, black heart.
I worked my jaw back and forth and winced. Calloway had landed a direct hit and it hurt like a bitch. I palpated the swollen area. A blinding streak of pain exploded behind my eye. Jesus. I couldn’t deny the man knew how to fight. It hurt like a bitch. It was enough to stop me from turning around, going to Kylie, waking her up, and vowing never to let her out of my sight.
Every light was off except a low wattage bulb above the stove. Did Sasquatch go to bed? He went to sleep with me, in his home, unsupervised, and in bed with his sister? I shook my head and hissed at the way my face throbbed. Slipping out the front door was so easy, I was disappointed Calloway wasn’t hiding, waiting for another shot. I wouldn't have even fought back. The guy might be a massive touchhole, but he deserved his pound of flesh. Fuck, if anyone shat all over Rémy the way I did Kylie, I'd probably end up in jail for murder. Real jail, not juvie.
Down in the parking garage, I fired up the Raptor and made my way to street level. The four hundred and fifty horsepower engine snarled. Feeling rather masochistic I pulled into traffic without looking. Horns blared and breaks squealed in my wake. I didn’t look back. My driving bordered on aggressive on a good day. After the night I had, my vision blurred with what I refused to admit were tears. I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel considering my mood verged on suicidal.
I had never felt so vulnerable. I didn’t break. Not when my father’s fists rained down on me, or when his ancient, steel-toed boots collided with my ribs, or when Rémy called in the middle of an episode and I was the only one who could talk him down.
I was the strong one. I was the one who took care of the people… or person in my life. I protected Rémy. Shielded him from the very worst, frequently lying to spare him the gruesome truth. How did I end up weak and defeated, wishing Rémy would call so I had someone to lean on, yet at the same time glad he didn’t, the need to protect him so deeply ingrained I didn’t want to dump my problems on him.
I drove in a fugue-state back to my place, unable to remember how I ended up parked in my assigned spot in the garage. I rode the elevator to my floor. Once the front door was locked behind me, I headed directly for the kitchen. I took in the wreckage of broken glass in and around the sink and caught the strong scent of whiskey in the air. A reminder I lost my temper. Snapped because I refused to believe I was in any way like my father, despite the mountain of evidence to the contrary.
I huffed out a somber laugh. What a fucking joke. I was more like him than I ever wanted to admit. A frequently drunk, exceptionally angry, and violent asshole who used and discarded anyone who dared to get too close, not giving a shit how much I hurt them as long as I got what I needed. And let’s not forget, when fucking or fighting wasn’t an option to calm the thrashing storm inside my head, I burned through whiskey like water.
Not like him, my ass. I was him. I was just too hung up on my own bullshit to realize it.
I tried to remain calm so I wouldn’t fall back into Dad’s habits and do a repeat of the night before. But fuck, I would kill for a drink. Twitch, twitch, twitch… I breathed in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth, counting up from one as I cleared my mind. I stood in my kitchen, breathing and counting until my fighting stance relaxed and my eye’s Riverdance performance came to an end.
Determination, raw and pure—reminiscent of how I threw myself into hockey as a kid, used it as a way to get out of that shitty house I grew up in—surged. If I didn’t want to become my Dad, a miserable, drunk, piece of shit, something had to change. I had to change. I crouched in front of the sink, opened the cabinet, fished out gloves and a sponge, and got to work.
Sebastien St. Clair, a.k.a. The Sinner, wasn’t good enough for Kylie Calloway. It was time to clean up my act. Prove I was worthy of her love. Until then, I would stay away, but I wouldn’t forget. I would wait until the moment was right.
Then? Game on. I take what was rightfully mine. My woman, my child, my family.
I checked the time and groaned. An unpleasant reminder morning skate began in a few hours. Ugh. The last thing I needed was a hot-headed Sasquatch up in my face. But if I had to make nice with that fuckstick Calloway took to deserve Kylie’s love, I’d do it.
That didn’t mean I had to like it.
14
Kylie
“I fucking knew
it! I told you that bastard was a piece of shit.”
I sat on the sofa, wrapped my arms around my knees, and curled up in a ball, while Rocco had his fifth nuclear meltdown of the morning, and the sun wasn’t even up yet. I felt crappy enough without his help. I didn’t need Rocco to pour salt on the raw, gaping wounds.
When I woke, refreshed and happy, Seb was gone. Despite Rocco harping on and on about how Sebastien was a womanizing asshole who was in no way good enough for me, as well a user, plus every other expletive you could think of and a few more tacked on that I’d never heard before, I was devastated, but unsurprised. Rocco thought I was a victim, innocent in what happened, but when I hooked up with Seb, I did in fact know exactly what I was getting into. The thrill of Seb’s love ‘em and leave ‘em reputation was precisely why I pursued him, hence my sad acceptance that Seb took off in the middle of the night.
“I’m going to make that jackhole sorry he ever took his first breath,” Rocco snarled as he swung around and thrust a finger in my face. “He’ll regret fucking you over, Ky. I promise.” Rocco dropped his hand and continued to stalk around the condo like a caged jungle cat. “The next time I see that shithead he's going to need an ambulance.”
The tattered remains of my heart began to crack under the strain, but breaking down in front of Rocco, again, wouldn't help. It would only make Rocco even more furious, if that was possible. So I steadied my trembling lip and held in a sob.
“Let it go, Rocco. It’s none of your business.” I sounded like a broken record, lecturing the same thing over and over, but Rocco was the most stubborn person I'd ever met. He wouldn’t be deterred. Rocco was going to clamp his frothing jaws around Seb’s ‘betrayal’ and wouldn't let go until Seb suffered enough to quench Rocco's thirst for revenge. I was pretty sure there wasn’t enough suffering in the world to make Rocco happy.
“What happens between the two of you might not be my business,” Rocco growled. His eyes flashed with rage. “But you have to see it from my perspective. My teammate, a guy who’s supposed to have my back unconditionally, seduced my little sister, stuck his dick where it didn’t belong, knocked her up, and left her like she was a two-dollar whore.”
My eyes filled with tears at the insult and I struggled to speak without losing my tenuous composure. “Thanks for making me feel worse than I already do by slut-shaming me.” I shook with abject misery. But I wasn’t done yet. I shot Rocco a glare and pointed at the opposite end of the sofa. “Sit down and shut the hell up.”
The look on Rocco's face would have been comical had I not been on the verge of kicking the crap out of him. He continued to gape, shocked. I tried to pull my brows into Rocco’s ‘v’ and just about shouted, “Sit down, now!”
Rocco blinked and his shocked expression fell. I watched as his jaw clenched, cheek muscles ticking. Not an unfamiliar sight. At his sides, his fingers clenched and unclenched and I knew my brother was trying to decide if he was going to 'give in' to his baby sister’s demand or stand his ground and fight. Eventually, he stomped over and dropped onto the sofa with a huff, loud enough to make sure I knew that even though he complied, he wasn't happy about it. I wanted to roll my eyes. As if I couldn't guess.
“You have quite a few uneducated assumptions stuffed inside that thick skull of yours that need adjusting.”
I felt like death, the skin around my eyes swollen from crying and my nose all stuffy, but come hell or high water, I was fixing Rocco’s messed up ideas.
“You need to realize, I’m this perfect person you've made me out to be. No, let me finish,” I said when Rocco tried to interject. “I don’t have a pedestal. I’m human, just like everyone else. I make mistakes. I have flaws. I do stupid things I wish I could take back.” I exhaled a shuddering breath. “Seb wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know me. But… I-I knew who Seb was… when we met. Knew his reputation. I knew he would probably break my heart. But Rocco, that’s why I wanted him, because he was bad for me.”
Rocco shook his head. “No. You didn’t really know what he’s like,” he insisted. “You didn't know what a raging asshole he is.”
I stared at the sofa cushion. “You’re wrong. I knew exactly what he was like. I have this… need, Rocco. I like things that are…” I picked at an invisible thread. “Dangerous.” I gathered my courage and met Rocco's confused gaze. My cheeks burned as I explained my bizarre fetish. “I get off on the thrill of doing things I know I shouldn't do. If Seb hadn't approached me first, I was going to find a way to approach him.”
They must have been having a fabulous time skiing in hell, because for the first time in my memory, Rocco was speechless. He stared at me as the awkwardness dragged on and on and on. When the silence became too much I cracked.
“Well? Aren't you going to yell? Aren't you mad at me for being stupid and careless?” Tears dripped down my face and I couldn't blame it on pregnancy hormones. I disgusted Rocco. From then on he would look at me and see a reckless, hot mess, not the sweet, perfect little sister he wanted. Ruining his image of me—his faith in me—tore me open like a paper bag and exposed all the ugly truths inside. “Rocco?” I croaked.
After an excruciatingly long time, Rocco scrubbed his hands up and down his face and sighed, then hung his head dejectedly. “No,” Rocco said, his voice small and sad. “I’m not mad at… at you. I'm mad at me.”
I jerked back. “What? Why would you feel that way? You have nothing to do with me being a total wreck.”
Rocco lifted his head and looked at me. It looked like he’d aged a decade overnight. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “Don't you get it, Ky? I raised you. If you're a wreck, it's because I did something wrong.”
I shook my head. “No. That's not true. It wasn't you.” I unfolded my legs and scooted closer. “We lost our parents when we were more or less teenagers. Honestly, I'd be shocked if we weren't screwed up a little. That's not something you just get over.” Hesitant, I reached out and, when he didn’t protest, I put my hand on his knee. “I owe you everything, Rocco. Everything. I wouldn't lie to you. My strange, um, interests aren’t the result of anything you did or didn’t do. I pushed the boundaries long before mom and dad were gone.”
Rocco put his huge hand over mine and threaded our fingers together. “I believe you.” Some of the tension left the room and I managed a small smile. “But Ky, it doesn’t change the fact that you're still pregnant, St. Clair still bailed on you, and I still want to kill him. So now what?”
My smile disappeared.
Now what, indeed.
Seb
“You look like shit, man,” Evvy said as he slid to a stop next to me. The fucker dug in his blades and aimed a spray of ice so it arced right in my face.
I used my sleeve to wipe it off, cracked my neck, and exhaled, unwilling to fight back. My eye twitched all night long, and as a result, I was fucking exhausted. After cleaning the kitchen, I pretty much sat on the couch and zoned as my eye spazzed out to its heart’s content. The last thing I wanted was for the damn thing to start up again right as finally I got it to stop.
I raised a questioning brow at Evvy and smirked. “Thanks, honey. You look lovely today, too, honey, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
Ev snorted and jabbed me with his stick. “No, seriously, dude. You seem, I dunno, weird.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I think I broke something. “We haven't even started practice and already you're nagging me.” Gesturing toward the tunnel where the rest of our teammates slowly trickled onto the ice, I said, “If you're going to act like a clingy bitch, go find yourself a different hockey husband.”
Evvy threw his head back and roared, and, sleep or no sleep, I found myself grinning, something I rarely did when I had to be at practice on less than two hours sleep. On top of the fatigue, both mental and physical, I made sure to arrive a good half an hour before everyone else. I was changed and on the ice before Calloway showed up and made a scene. And I had no doubt that’s exactly what he would do. Without Kylie to
intervene, I figured there was at least a ninety-three and a half percent chance blood would be shed by the time all was said and done.
“You don't do puck bunnies, remember?” Ev asked as he playfully shoved me.
“Are you saying you’re a puck bunny, Evvy?” His response was to thump me in the chest with his knuckles. “Ow! You bastard.”
“That’s what you get for calling me a puck bunny,” he grumbled.
“You started it.”
The noise around us grew louder as the guys trickled onto the ice, their shouts and laughter echoing throughout the empty arena. I kept watch on the opening from the tunnel, expecting a rabid Calloway to shoot out onto the ice, face crimson and foaming at the mouth, out for revenge. Imagine how surprised I was when the man in question finally made his entrance, only to ignore me. He joined the Comets’ defensive coach and the rest of the squad on the far end of the ice without so much as a glance in my direction.
I wasn't sure if it was good he didn’t start shit, or not, but the uncertainty made me paranoid. I spent the whole night getting geared up for a knock-down, drag-out fistfight with the huge enforcer. Fuck, I was vibrating with anticipation, ready to draw blood. When Calloway snubbed me and skated off, the adrenaline that buzzed through my veins had nowhere to go and left me feeling twitchy and anxious.
Coach’s loud whistle yanked me back to the present. I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs and joined the offensive squad. Practice was brutal. No sleep plus being too keyed up to eat breakfast equaled an unbelievably shitty performance. Coach rode my ass so hard I swore I'd find crop marks all over when I peeled off my pads. My timing was off, my dekes and passes disjointed and uneven. I couldn't get in the proper headspace, too wrapped up in worrying over what I would say to Kylie once I got my act together, and how she would respond.
“Okay!” Coach shouted. "Were gonna start with first and third line versus second and fourth line. Three on two scrimmage. Change out every sixty-seconds. So move your lazy asses!” He blew the whistle again. Not paying attention, I had skated too close. My ears rang for a good five minutes.
The Sinner Page 30