Born Sinner by Cora Kenborn

Chapter Seven

Lola

I shouldn’t warn him.

I should go back to my apartment and let Santi dish out whatever punishment he sees fit. After all, Troy tried to rape me, and Sam…

Oh my God, did he brand me?

We’ve never said two words to each other before, but it seems he’s happy to let his knife do the talking. I thought the new blood thrumming through the veins of the cartel underworld might dilute this feud between our families. Instead, it seems to have fortified it. Fueled it. Twisted it into something much darker…

Now, instead of standing on the outskirts of war, I’ve been forced across its borders and made into a casualty.

I shouldn’t warn him.

The words repeat in my head as I pull my car into the parking lot outside his apartment. They burrow deep into my psyche as I climb the pretentious marble steps leading to his front door. They slice into my heart as I reach out a shaking finger and ring the doorbell.

Nothing.

I ring it again.

Nothing.

“Sam?” I press my face against the narrow window beside the door. There doesn’t appear to be any movement, but I still call his name. “I know you’re in there, Sam Sanders,” I say, hissing the now-familiar last name. “You don’t know who the hell you’ve messed with. Why don’t you come out here and face me now that I’m conscious?”

Nothing.

Shit.

Exhaustion and nerves hit all at once, and I collapse forward, dropping my forehead against the glass. Heaving a sigh, I twist around until my back hits the brick wall next to it.

Nice. Real smooth, Lola.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I came here with no plan and no forethought. All I know is that I can’t get Santi’s words out of my head.

“Sam didn’t touch me, Santi! We’ve never even spoken to each other.”

“Are you sure about that, chaparrita?”

I thought I was. But now I can’t seem to remember much of anything. And if Santi is right, and this S carved on me stands for Santiago, at some point late last night, I was alone with Colton.

Sanders…whatever.

Something dark and forbidden flares inside me. Something I can never speak of or acknowledge. The thought of him touching me should sicken me, but it doesn’t.

Quite the opposite.

“It’s just the drugs,” I say with a groan, stepping away from the apartment. “Whatever Troy slipped in my drink messed up my head.” Sighing, I turn to leave, when a piece of yellow paper stuck to the far side of the door catches my eye.

The closer I get, I realize it’s a Post-it Note that someone has scribbled on. Ripping it off the door, I read it word for word and line for line. Then I read it twice more as a rush of heat crawls up my neck and stains my face.

When I read his words for the fourth time, I swear I can feel him watching me again.

My mouse doesn't want to be caught. Unless that's what she desires most... Better luck next time, dulzura.