Page 72 of Guilty as Sin

“You don’t have to be,” I remind him.

“I can’t run away like you did.”

I know my place, Brady had said when I’d stitched him up. Unlike some.

“Connor—”

“I should go,” he says. “Did you find anything interesting?”

“Just a box full of old wrestling trophies.” Nothing else remotely sentimental. I put the lid back on the box and return it to its corner by Brady’s shoe rack.

Connor says his goodbye like it’s an apology, and I hang up with an ache in my chest. I don’t like the idea of my brother still beholden to Cormac, but there’s not much I can do about it. I return to what I can do, which is to rifle through all of Brady’s clothes pockets.

I own you.

Cormac thought he owned me too, but that’s only because he didn’t realize who I really am, what I’m capable of.

Brady’s seen for himself what I’m capable of. Skilled knifework and bottle wielding and throwing men out of bars. More importantly, he knows who I am, and to an unsettling degree. He knew that saying I own you would piss me off, and that my immediate response would be fury toward him.

It’s like he baited my hatred, and all because I didn’t return his I love you.

I find nothing in his suit pockets, and move on to digging through his jeans, careful to neatly refold each pair.

I love you, Cora.

I snort to myself. For a supposed power play, it was painfully false. People like Brady don’t waste time on love. The only thing he respects is power, that’s why I asked to be his partner.

I drop the pants I’m holding.

I asked to be Brady’s partner, and he told me that he loved me.

“Fuck.” I say it out loud.

Snatching the jeans off the floor, I fold them back into place. Once they’re correctly arranged back on their stack, I take a moment to appreciate Brady’s meticulousness. Not just his clothes, but his whole penthouse, his entire life with its careful planning, his work. Everything about him is precise and well-ordered.

But with me, he’s wild.

We lose control in each other, and it’s pure exhilaration.

I love you, Cora.

And now he’s gone, stormed off to who knows where. I swallow down whatever fucking emotion is trying to climb up my throat and return to what I was doing. When I slide open Brady’s nightstand, I find a loaded Glock 45, a dogeared copy of The Art of War, and a dozen Trojan Magnums. I take note of where everything’s located in the drawer, then I empty it.

Sure enough, there’s a false bottom, and in it hides a single heavy-duty key. I feel the corners of my lips twitch upward. That’s my Brady. I pocket the key in case it helps with my snooping, then I return everything in the drawer to where it was.

I find nothing else of interest in his bedroom, or kitchen, or gym. His office is locked. I try using the key I found, but it gets jammed halfway in. It takes me five minutes and lots of swearing to jiggle it loose, and when I finally yank it free, I accidentally scratch the metal beside the keyhole. I swear to myself again, but it’s only noticeable if you look closely.

Resigned, I slip the heavy-duty key back into my pants pocket. Though I search the rest of the penthouse, the only other key I find is a BMW fob on a hook in the front closet. Brady must have his chandelier of brass keys with him, wherever the hell he is.

I hope he’s safe. It’s the faintest whisper from the tiniest corner of my mind, but I feel the sentiment with my entire being.

I love you, Cora.

Fuck. I pick up the red dress from the floor of his bedroom, then bring it back to my room to hang it up. But when I pull out one of his hotel’s wooden hangers, I pause. I take off the clothes I’m wearing, shimmy into the red dress, and examine myself in my room’s full-length mirror.

He bought it for me because it’s bright, noticeable enough to catch Noah’s attention through a restaurant window. He made me wear it as a manipulation. Then I cut off its long skirt as a manipulation. All we are is mind games and sex and violence and⁠—

I love you, Cora.