Page 11 of Taken By Sin
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Sin." He sighs, seeming annoyed by my presence.
The warmth of the fire radiates over my body, shaking off the chill that his presence brings me. "Okay, Sin, why am I not at the boarding home?”
“I intercepted your pickup,” he states simply, not looking at me.
Stunned into silence, I trip over my words. “You… didwhat?”
Bria dances into the room, humming, oblivious to the disdain I’m showcasing to Sin. “We need your card, our girl needs some new clothes,” she sings.
The room grows quiet as Sin looks up for the first time. He studies me slowly. “I quite like the skirts,” he responds, lazily flipping through the pages of whatever he’s reading.
“Of course, you would.” She rolls her eyes. “Come.”
Sin sneers, “Be careful.”
“I’ll protect your precious pet.” Bria groans.
Pet?
She takes my hand, nearly leading me away, but I stand firm, and we pause. “I need to speak with Ms. Finley privately for a moment.” Sin says.
I give her a pleading look; I need to understand what’s happening. “I just need a second.”
Bria taps her heels impatiently against the marble flooring. “Fine, but make it quick!” she tells him.
“Go away,” he orders.
She takes a moment to leave the library, and as we hear the distant click of her heels on the stairs, Sin approaches me. I stand tall, as if preparing for a posture check by the sisters.
He spins around and places his tattooed hands on my shoulders. “Relax,” he breathes, sending a warm tingle down my spine as he eases my shoulders into a more comfortable position. Then, he sits on the edge of his desk, facing me. “What do you want to know?”
The arrogance is thick, and it’s making me want to scream. “Rephrase that,” I tell him.
His brow lifts in inquiry, and whether that’s from my tone or the question itself, I don’t know. A dark chuckle escapes his full lips. “You look scared, and you’re probably curious about why you’re here instead of there,” he says, gesturing vaguely.
A wisp of cool air brushes my face, and I find it maddening that he has the air conditioning on while the fire blazes.
“Correct?” he presses.
“Obviously.”
He places his hand to the left, and then sweeps it to the right. “You were going there, and I wanted you here.” He says it as if it’s that simple, as if anything he wants in this world is his so long as he bats his thick lashes. It’s infuriating.
My brows raise. Why would he want me here? “They’re probably looking for me.”
He becomes bored and tilts his head. “They aren't." His tone is icy, unlike the kind man who sent me books.
“How do you know?”
He returns to his desk and thumbs through the pages of a different book, “My driver already told them you ran away at the first red light he made it to.”
Across from the window on my right, I notice an empty bookshelf that reaches twelve feet tall; I scan its vacant surface. “They’ll still ask questions," I tell him.
“You’re of legal age. They're not going to look for a little orphan girl.”
I don't know whether to be alarmed or annoyed. Hebrought me here, without harm, but now that I'm in front of him his demeanor nearly seems like he doesn't care whether I stay or go. “Why are you doing this to me?”