Absinthe Of The Heart (Sins Of The Heart Book 1)

by Monica James

  “Open…the door. It’s me…Princess.” The blood whooshes through my ears, and my stomach drops thirteen floors.

  I fumble with the chain with butter fingers because there is no way he is standing outside my door. But as I yank it open, baseball bat still in hand, I see that he is.

  Holy fucking shit.

  He looks a little different from when I saw him last. He’s in a tux, but that’s not what I’m referring to. The fact he’s slathered in blood and looks as if he’s gone five rounds with Mike Tyson is my major concern.

  “Sin? Wh-what happened?” I cover my mouth, horrified.

  His bloodied hands are gripping his side, and when he staggers forward, he hisses in pain. “Can I come in?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, but instead half collapses into me. I drop the bat and instantly catch him, afraid he’ll face plant on the floor.

  When he sags against me, I almost lose balance because he’s so damn heavy. “Can you walk?” He nods, biting his swollen lip to stop from grunting out in pain.

  We commence a slow stagger inside, him barely making it two feet before placing his hand on the wall to catch his breath. I’m trying my best to keep him upright, but he’s wobbling and so unsteady on his feet, I’m scared we won’t make it to the kitchen in time.

  My bedroom is closer, so I lead the way, never letting him go as I wrap my arm around his waist, coaxing he lean against me for support. He stumbles like he’s drunk, but I know the swelling in his right eye is probably the reason he can’t walk straight.

  I’m running on pure adrenaline because on a normal day, there is no way I could half carry him down the hallway and into my room. The moment we enter, I steer him toward my bed, where he collapses and I fall with him. Thankfully, the mattress breaks our fall. I scramble out from under him, flinching when he groans in pain.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, I bite my nails, not sure what I’m supposed to do. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  He manages to roll onto his back but shakes his head with force. His red-stained hair sticks to his brow. “No. I’m fine. I just need…to catch my breath.”

  That’s an exaggeration, to say the least. “What happened?” I ask again, standing statue still.

  “I ran into a…door,” he pants, clutching his side as he attempts to sit up. I dash forward to help him, unbelieving he’s making jokes right now.

  After three attempts, he’s sitting upright, but his face is a hot mess. He swipes at his busted lip with the back of his hand, coming away with a smear of red.

  “I’ll be right back.” I don’t wait for him to answer and dash down the hall to the bathroom.

  Our measly cabinets hold little to no first-aid supplies, but I grab what I can and quickly make my way back to my room. He’s slouched in the same position I left him in, which worries me. Maybe he has a concussion?

  “I wish you’d let me call someone.”

  “No,” he barks, shaking his head stubbornly.

  Not interested in arguing, I tie back my hair and have no idea where to start. “Can I clean your face? Your war paint is s-scaring me.”

  I’m scared not because of the blood, but rather, because he’s hurt. Who did this to him?

  He looks up at me, the blueness of his irises now merged with droplets of angry red. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” When he attempts to stand, I stop him. He tilts his chin to look at my hand pressed to his shoulder. Finally, he nods.

  Reaching for the bag of cotton pads and antiseptic wash, I dab a few pads with the strong smelling liquid and pull a pained face. “This is going to hurt.”

  Dropping the rest of the supplies by my side, I kneel before him and hesitantly reach up to brush the matted hair from his brow. He hastily yanks away, appearing like I’m crossing some personal boundary, but I gently grip his chin and look into his eyes. “Stop being such a crybaby and let me help you.”

  Insulting him has the desired effect, and he stops fighting me.

  I could approach this with baby steps, but why start now? With that as my motto, I press the soaked gauze to his eye without any warm-up. “Holy motherfucker. Fuck!”

  I pull back, afraid I’ll lose a finger. “Sorry. I thought it’d be like a Band-Aid. Do it quick,” I explain, while he continues cursing like a sailor.

  “How about a little warning next time,” he barks without any bite.

  “I did offer to call an ambulance, but you refused.” I shrug, scrunching up my nose. This is the only way I can get through this. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

  “Oh, you’re so enjoying this,” he says, shaking his head with a hammered smirk.

  “Just a little bit,” I confess, showing him just how much by using my thumb and pointer as a ruler.

  He blows out a deep breath and nods. “Fine, I’m at your mercy.”

  “That’s a nice change,” I mumble under my breath as I reach for another cotton pad. I apply a small amount and attempt to dab at his eyebrow, but then pull away, giving him warning that I’m near.

  “Just do it,” he instructs, rolling his eyes.

  “Wow, someone grew a pair.” I press the gauze to his eye and gently wipe at the gunk. When it comes away a bloody mess, I reach for two more.

  We’re quiet as I tend to him, both appearing to be lost for words. Not in a million years did I ever imagine myself nursing Sin back to health, considering most times I imagined I was the one who inflicted these sorts of wounds. “So are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “No,” he replies without pause but hisses when I dab a little too forcibly at the cut above his right eye.

  “You can’t just show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night looking like shit and not expect me to ask any questions.”

  “You should see the other guy,” he mocks, attempting to whistle, but it comes out a deflated shrill.

  “Did this happen at prom?”

  His jaw clenches, answering the question for me.

  The fact he’s covered in blood and dirt and missing a jacket and tie hints I missed out on a night of fun. “Where’s Belle?” He yanks his face away, but this time, it’s not because I’ve tended to him too roughly. “I-is she okay?”

  My heart begins to race.

  When he senses my concern, he nods. “She’s fine.” But he’s not telling me something. I’ve come to know him as well as he’s come to know me. I take a moment to compose myself, but I can’t stop the tremble to my hands.

  His eye is as clean as I can get it, so I decide to wipe away the blood coating his lips. But the thought of touching them and being this close to him suddenly highlights what a big, fat liar I am. I promised my mom I would stay away from him, yet here he is, in my bedroom. I need some air.

  “I-I’ll just get you some water and maybe some ice for your ribs?” I ask pointedly, looking at where he still clutches his side.

  “Thanks.” He watches me closely, waiting for a sign to give away my thoughts. But I’ve mastered the perfect poker face thanks to him.

  The air is filled with an uncomfortable vibe, so I pass him the gauze and antiseptic wash. He accepts, but surprises me when he gently overlaps my fingers with his. Peering down at our connection, I cringe when the light shines down on his bloodied knuckles.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I don’t wait for his response, but instead, I practically run from my room on the cusp of a nervous breakdown. When I reach the kitchen, I brace my hands on the counter and bend low and take three steadying breaths.

  I have no idea what’s going on, but something inside me says I’m somehow involved. I really should call Belle or Lincoln, but I’d rather hear it from Sin. He’s the only one who doesn’t sugarcoat anything because he knows I can deal.

  Inhaling and exhaling, I feel remotely better. I open the freezer and reach for a bag of peas. I grab a bottle of water and make my way back to my room. Sin is still seated on the edge of my bed, but his face looks somewhat better now that it’s not caked in dried blood.
However, in its place are the underlying bruises beginning to form. He’s going to be sore in the morning.

  “Which do you want first?” I ask, juggling the peas and water. He points at the bottle of water.

  As I casually walk toward him, I notice his eyes do a quick sweep down my body. I have no idea why until I too look down and see my unicorn sleep shorts and white lace tank staring back at me. In my panic, I completely forgot a little thing called a bra.

  My arms instantly fly up to cover my very exposed chest, but that only draws attention to my pinkening flesh. He smirks, but beckons for the water, his thirst taking precedence over my sheer mortification.

  I pass it to him with one arm still draped around me.

  He unscrews the lid and throws it back, chugging it down thirstily. I wonder how he got here. He’s in no state to drive. But the most pressing question of all is why did he come here? I stand in the middle of the room, biting my thumbnail, attempting to decipher this baffling riddle.

  “Peas?” he simply says, extending his hand. His voice shatters the twenty questions bouncing around my head, and I toss him the bag.

  His shirt is already untucked, so he lifts the hem slightly and places the peas to his ribs. He hisses, closing his eyes for a second, but reopens them moments later.

  “I’ll split in a few. Sorry I ruined your night.” My cream comforter catches his eye because it resembles a piece of bloody abstract art. “Shit, and your quilt. I’ll have it dry cleaned.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  The uncomfortable silence pervades the room once again, a mist we’re both bound to choke on if we don’t stop dancing around the subject at hand. “What happened?” I press once again, hoping he sheds some light this time.

  Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, the mussed strands standing up in protest. It’s apparent he’s weighing what to say next. “Promise me something?” I nod shakily.

  My heart sounds to a deafening cadence when he clutches the end of the bed and slowly stands. He looks like he’s been in the wars, but I can’t help but compare him to a warrior, fighting until his last breath. “Listen to what Belle has to say.”

  I cock my head to the side, rivaling Scooby-Doo. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  “I know that doesn’t make sense to you, but it will.” I stand frozen, waiting for more, but that’s it. The final act. “Thanks for the water. Send me the bill.”

  As he hobbles forward, a silent dismissal that this conversation is done, my body acts before my brain can catch up. “What the hell? You can’t say that and then just leave.” I latch onto his forearm, my fingertips digging into his skin.

  “Just trust me, Princess.”

  “Trust you?” I can’t help the sarcastic snigger which escapes me. “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “Because it’s not my story to tell.” His reply punches me in the stomach, and I let him go.

  A darkening sense of foreboding blankets me, and I know my original thought was right—whatever happened, happened because of me.

  “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” I didn’t even know I was until he’s towering over me wiping away my tears with his thumbs.

  “I’m not crying.” I sniff, rebuking his claims.

  Vulnerable and scared, I lean into his touch and allow this untainted moment of sincerity between us. The tremble of his caress has me lifting my eyes, curious to why he’s quivering. But what I see takes my breath away.

  Sin’s layers are stripped back, and he’s standing before me naked and utterly exposed. “London?” I gasp, not understanding what I’m seeing.

  That uncertainty lingers when he continues touching me long after my tears are gone. With two fingers, he traces the apple of my cheeks, and then continues along the slope of my nose, but when he outlines the curl of my mouth, everything becomes crystal clear.

  His focus is on my lips, which he fondles with delicious strokes. His fingers swallow up the surface, overlapping from left to right as he paints over my top and bottom lip over and over again.

  I stand perfectly still. Too afraid to move. Too afraid to breathe.

  He continues his journey, fixated on my pouty bottom lip, which he tugs between his thumb and pointer. I can’t help the low, rasping whimper. “You’re so…infuriately beautiful.”

  I almost topple over because his admission is foreign. But he doesn’t allow me to recover.

  “I have never met anyone who I…love and hate…in the same breath as I do you.”

  “You…what?” I don’t pause for dramatic effect. I pause because I’m about to faint.

  “You’re the cause of my chaos, but when I’m with you…nothing has felt more real.”

  My head is reeling, my body combusts, but suddenly, everything aligns, and through chaos, London and I find clarity. He feels it too. We’re meant to hate one another, be feuding enemies for all time—but how can you hate something that you love most in this world? Something that is a part of you, as you are of yourself.

  “Tell me this is a bad idea,” he declares, the low tenor warming me from head to toe.

  “This is a bad idea,” I state with no ammunition.

  He meets my eyes, and I fucking explode. I dissolve, I liquefy; every part of me turns to mush. None of this makes any sense. London Sinclair is the literal bad boy my parents warned me about growing up, but seventeen years of life lessons get thrown out the window because I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want him.

  He rewards me with a lopsided smirk, but this time, that cocky smile is laced with wanting and belonging.

  I don’t know who dives for whom first, but when our lips connect, the world disappears and no one but us exists. I cry into his mouth, unable to control the inner turmoil eating away at my soul. I should push him away, but I’d rather tear out my fingernails and cut off my hands before I even think about doing that.

  His tongue slides into my mouth, commanding mine to surrender and succumb to him completely. I yield, wrapping both arms around his nape and drawing his face down to mine. We kiss like ravenous beasts, biting and clawing at one another until I can no longer breathe. I know I should be gentle, but I can’t.

  He threads his fingers through my hair, my hair tie long gone as he suddenly jerks my head backward and exposes the length of my neck. I close my eyes and tip my head farther back when he lowers his lips and bites over my pulse.

  Nothing has ever felt more sinful, but when his lips descend my neck, suckling and licking along the way, I know this is just a taste of what’s to come. I squeeze my eyes shut, panting so goddamn loud, I’m certain my neighbors can hear.

  “You smell so fucking good,” he hums against my throat, tightening his hold around my waist.

  His tongue circles over the dip between my collarbones before leading up to my pulse once again. He bites and sucks, no doubt leaving a hickey the size of Texas, but I’ll wear that sucker with pride.

  He continues kissing my jaw, biting my chin before smashing our lips together once more. I devour him like he’s my last meal and trap his bottom lip in mine. He pulls away, hissing, and I see I’ve drawn blood. I’m a complete sadist, because the sight pleases me beyond words.

  I reach for him, fisting the lapels of his shirt to reconnect our lips, but he pulls away, teasing with a grin. I huff in frustration, but that leads to a gasp when the hand around my waist slithers to the front of my shorts.

  He watches me closely, never breaking eye contact as he rubs in a small circle with two fingers over my most treasured part. I cry out, slumping forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder as he quickens the speed and delves in deeper.

  I can’t believe how good this feels, and he’s not even touching me in the flesh. As he finds my ripened center, he pinches lightly, making me see stars. “Oh fuck,” I grunt, biting his shoulder, needing something to give.

  “Like that, Princess?” he hums when I melt around his hand, demanding more. I’m so turned on, every pa
rt of my body is tingling, and I’m afraid I’ll explode.

  “More,” I manage to push out past my wheezing.

  He doesn’t need further instructions and plunges his hand into my shorts, breaking past any last standing reservations. I scream when he slides two fingers along my slick entrance.

  My arousal coats his fingertips, which has a rumble of approval splitting the room. “Holy fuck. You want to come already?” I whimper my response, desperate for this burning to end. “Not yet. I promised you…this is only the beginning.”

  Oh god…

  I don’t have time to process what that means because he slowly works a finger into me, obliterating all other thoughts. My needy body clenches around him, milking him and pleading for more…more…more.

  The intrusion is painful because this is the first time anyone has touched me this way, but the sting is bittersweet. I want him to stop, but the need for him to continue overrides any pain. I spread my legs, shyly demanding I want more, and more I get.

  He inserts another finger into me, coiling and stretching until I can no longer stand it a second longer. “Please…” I beg, hating how weak I sound.

  “Please what?” he smugly poses because he knows what I want.

  When I seal my lips shut, he submerges deeper, his thumb flicking over my ripened bud. “London, please, oh god.” I squirm, attempting to scamper away, but he’s holding me in the literal palm of his hand with no intention of ever letting go.

  Just when I think I’m about to die, he yanks his hand out from my shorts, my body shrieking in protest. “Wh—” My question dies in my throat when he wraps his hands under my ass and lifts me. I instinctively loop my legs around his waist and hold on tight when he walks us toward the bed.

  I know what he’s doing, and I know I should tell him to stop, but I can’t.

  He lowers me onto the mattress but doesn’t fall with me. I shuffle up the bed, resting against the pillows, waiting anxiously for what comes next. He sits on his heels, watching me, savoring every inch.