Born Sinner by Cora Kenborn

Chapter Nine

Lola

My concentration is shotto hell.

After the fourth time scanning the same paragraph, I slam my social sciences book closed and toss it away. Groaning, I press my fingers against my closed eyelids as I sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed.

I have no clue what I just read.

Although, I shouldn’t be shocked—there’s no room left inside my head for useless information. I thought keeping busy the rest of the day would occupy all the space he’s claimed, but that’s an impossible feat.

Especially when it’s just as marked with his name as my skin.

Even after eight hours of senseless shopping and a caffeine-infused coffee-house crawl, I still can’t get Sam, or his dark note, off my mind.

My elbows dig into the inside of my knees as I slump forward. Sinking my fingers into my hair, I tug at the strands as if somehow it will unroot memories from last night.

The ones of him.

The ones of him touching me.

Marking me.

Seeing me.

He witnessed me at my most vulnerable—naked and at his mercy. He could have added his enemy’s innocence to his claims last night, but he didn’t.

Why?

And why the hell am I even questioning it?

I should be counting my blessings that last night only cost me a physical scar. It could have been much worse. He could have left me with plenty more that would never heal.

Digging into the pocket of my shorts, I pull out a crumpled yellow piece of paper, my heart leaping into my throat as I smooth it out on my bare thigh.

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

Dulzura.

Sweetness? What the hell is that? I’m sure it wasn’t meant as a term of endearment as much as a well-aimed dart. Just like all Santiagos, he managed to twist something innocent into something dark and perverted.

I should be furious. Instead, I want to twist back.

Which would be suicidal.

Sandwiching the Post-it Note between my palms, I press them against my lips almost as if in prayer. For what, I have no idea.

Forgiveness for my sins?

Strength not to commit more?

Wisdom to know the damn difference?

Sam Sanders…Just his name should be a cold slap of reality. If knowledge is power, then knowing who Sam Colton really is should drown this infatuation in a deep pool of vengeance.

So why don’t I hate him?

Why do I still have his note?

Two more questions I don’t have the answers to.

Unfolding my legs, I climb off my bed, wondering just how high this ledge is… The one I seem to have found myself cornered on with nowhere to run. No means of escape.

No way out but straight down.

Moving toward the window, I brush the curtain with the back of my hand. Unsurprisingly, my only view is a steel jaw and tense, folded arms. It’s dark, but then again, so is RJ. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bribes the sun just to exist in its light.

The streetlight casts a demonic glow across his expressionless face. He’s not in a pleasant mood, and with good reason. I had him chasing me all over New Brunswick today like we were two rats in a bullet-ridden maze.

Courtesy of one overprotective future cartel king.

“Well played, Santi,” I mutter.

My brother is nothing if not shrewd. My father has already punished one of my trusted bodyguards for my actions—RJ is his calculated replacement.

Slumping against the window frame, I let out a weary sigh. I never intentionally meant to cause Felipé harm. He was a good bodyguard. A good sicario. A good man. But in cartel life, good and bad are simply varying shades of the same intent—loyalty.

Felipé wasn’t family.

But RJ is...

Santi knows damn well I’d never do anything impulsive and risk our cousin’s life—like ditch him to go to an enemy’s party.

The thought barely takes form in my head before he lifts his chin and meets my stare head-on. Yep, he’s pissed… RJ doesn’t smirk or sneer. He just continues to stare up at me, his arms pulled tightly across his white button-up as he leans up against the hood of his car.

He’d be a lot more pissed if he knew I saw him at that restaurant in North Caldwell a week ago. From what I witnessed, it seems I’m not the only one with my ass on the line.

Sighing, I pull my hand back and the curtain flutters back into place. A caged princess with no prince in sight. The Post-it Note feels like a tangle of thorns in my hand as I collapse against the wall.

Why the hell did I go to his place to try and warn him?That’s a direct betrayal of not only my brother, but my entire family.

Because the thought of Sam getting hurt terrifies you, a voice in my head answers. Which makes zero sense. The man has done nothing but play mind games with me, yet here I am…

Protectinghim.

I push away from the window.

No. I’m stronger than this.

Balling the note, I toss it in the trash can next to my nightstand. “You're wrong, Sam,” I promise under my breath. “This is one mouse you’ll never catch.”

Flopping back onto my bed, I reach for my textbook when my phone rings. One glance at the caller ID, and I contemplate sending it straight to voicemail. I’m in no mood to play identity roulette right now. However, ever since arriving in America, I’ve learned there are two truths in life: I’ll never escape my name, and Avery Thorpe will not be ignored.

Swiping the damn thing off the nightstand, I force pleasantries I don’t feel. “Hi, Ave…”

“It’s about damn time.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I glance toward the window where I know RJ still sits on the other side, brooding. “I had a lot of studying to do.”

“It’s Saturday.” Before I can come up with a suitable rebuttal, she adds, “And that’s bullshit. You haven’t been home all day—we checked.”

Shit.

“Look, I—”

“Spill, Diaz,” she interrupts. “I want all the horny details.”

My grip tightens around the phone. “What?”

“Troy…you lucky bitch. We all saw you go upstairs with him last night at the party. We looked for you later on, but someone said you’d left with him.”

I wince. I left…but not with Troy.

“Someone saw wrong,” I say flatly.

I might as well have said someone saw me sprout horns and a tail and then screw Satan on the hood of Sam’s Bugatti.

“Own it, María. Hell, I’d tattoo that shit on my forehead if I were you.”

I roll my eyes. “That’d make for an awkward job interview.”

She laughs, a sound which slices through the thick tension that’s been wrapped around me since meeting with Santi.

Rubbing my temple, I exhale a breath that’s half-sigh and half-laugh. “Nothing happened, Avery. I turned him down, so he ditched me and hung around for a while.” Technically, it’s not a lie. If Santi has had his way, Troy is probably doing a lot of hanging. “I slept in my own bed last night…alone.”

Again, technically not a lie.

“Whatever,” she mutters. “We’ll get it out of you tonight after a few drinks.”

Wait, what?

“Tonight?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot. Girls night?” When I don’t say anything, she groans out her annoyance. “We planned it weeks ago.”

Which is exactly why I forgot about it.

I’ve never had “girl” friends. I’ve never had many friends, period. Bearing the Carrera name doesn’t lend itself to many sleepovers. This whole sisterhood thing is as foreign as America itself.

“I’ll have to pass.” I’m not in a partying mood after just getting roofied, plus Santi would lose his shit—and then pretty blonde girls become dead ones.

“Come on,” she whines. “You owe it to us after ditching us last night.”

What am I supposed to say to that? It’s not like I can tell her the truth.

So to avoid any more questions and another possible homicide, I relent.

“Fine.” Drawing out the word with a groan, I crane my arm and snag a pen off my nightstand. “Where do I meet you?” Damn it, I need something to write on. I scan my room, but besides my textbook, there’s only one thing in sight.

One taunting piece of discarded yellow paper.

Swinging my legs off the side of the mattress, I clench my teeth as I hook my foot over the rim of the trashcan and then drag it toward me. Begrudgingly, I retrieve the crumbled Post-it Note, smoothing it out and then flipping it over, all while trying not to think about the lethal promise scrawled on the other side.

“The Foxhole, ten o’clock.” she says as an engine revs in the background. “And María...?”

“Yeah?”

“Dress to kill.”

I stiffen as the line goes dead. Slowly, I turn the Post-it Note back over, re-reading my enemy’s words as a graphic warning flares inside my head.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” I whisper softly.

* * *

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a horrified expression looking back at me. One sliced into a distorted, crude mosaic crafted by him.

His scent lingers somewhere deep in my subconscious. A vicious haven of leather and barbed wire.

One foot moves in front of the other until I’m pressed up against the counter. Reaching forward, I touch the glass, trailing my finger along the dried stains.

I may be a virgin, but I’m not totally innocent.

I know what the hell is all over my mirror.

And basin.

And faucets.

Cum.

“You son of a bitch,” I hiss, dropping my hand and clenching my fists by my side. Only the words lack conviction. There’s no offense entwined with my insult, only fire.

The wrong kind.

I’m furious he invaded my apartment. I’m fearful of how he did it so easily.

But most of all, I’m turned on.

I don’t know what game Sam’s playing, but it has taken a dangerous turn. He’s marked me, and now he’s marked the one place I call my own. It’s a message I should return with a lipstick-kissed bullet, but I can’t ignore the coiling in my belly or the unbearable ache between my legs.

Thoughts of him consume me as carnal need takes over. I close my eyes, diluted justification swimming behind them as my hand slides inside the waistband of my shorts. It will almost be like we came together…

Sam...

However, the moment my finger slides in between my wet folds, my eyes fly open in horror. This is what he wants… Pissed, I jerk my hand out of my shorts, the elastic waistband snapping back into place with a pop.

No.I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Nice try, asshole.” Bending down, I open a cabinet door under the counter, swinging it hard against the wooden base. Armed with a towel in one hand and Windex in the other, I go to erase every trace of him…and then I freeze.

Because some messed-up, masochistic part of me doesn’t want to.

Common sense tells me I’m taking a dangerous risk by leaving it there, but logic isn’t in control right now—lust is.

Sighing out a frustrated breath, I drop the towel and my clothes into a pile on the bathroom floor. I don’t care about the consequences as I turn the shower on full blast and step under a waterfall of scalding hot punishment.

As I lather, images of Sam force their way into my head. His hand pumping his thick cock. His face twisted in Machiavellian pleasure while coming with my name on his lips.

My hand creeps lower.

No, Lola. Don’t do it.

I grit my teeth, forcing my hand back up my body, wincing as my fingers graze my still tender hip. Blinking water from my eyes, I glance down at the letter he carved into my skin. I trace the jagged curve that starts at the top, following down its forbidden path.

“S isn’t for slut, Lola. It’s for Santiago.”

The words are sharp shards of ice driven straight into my chest.

Did he do it out of hate, or was it something darker?

“Damn you, Sanders…” Quickly rinsing off, I slam my hand onto the faucet and angrily turn the water off.

Why do I let him get to me like this?

Shoving my hand against the shower door, I drag the discarded towel off the floor and wrap it around my body, not bothering to dry off first.

And then I see it again—his salacious calling card.

Ripping the towel off, I stomp toward the glass and scrub the mirror and basin until they’re both spotless. Taking slow, ragged breaths to diffuse my anger, I hastily shake out the towel and wrap it back around my dripping skin.

It’s only then that I realize what I’ve done.

So much for getting clean. I just coated myself in my stalker’s cum.

Wandering back into my bedroom, I open my closet, revealing row after row of designer dresses. However, only one catches my eye.

Dress to kill…

Swallowing any lingering reservation, I reach for the one I know with every fiber of my being I shouldn’t wear.

Short, shiny, and silver.

I hope Sam Sanders has the good sense to stay away tonight.

Otherwise, those words may be prophetic.