Chapter 1

Kayla

Aliar. That’s what I felt like I was.

A sinner. That’s who I wanted to be.

I stared at my reflection, the girl looking back at me a faux version of myself.

Good Girl Kayla. That’s what everyone had always called me. I could envision that”s what my mother and father would have said about me if they were still alive. But not knowing them left this hole in my body that could never be filled. It wasn’t an aching wound, but it was just… there.

But there was my uncle, who’d been like a father to me. “Beautiful like a sunset.” That’s how he’d described me. He’d been one of those people who always saw the glass half full. The optimist. The positive thinker.

Thinking about him, the man who raised me after my parents passed away, always brought a sharp pain to my chest, deep in my heart, until all I felt was that gnawing presence.

Because he’d been taken from me, just like my parents had been.

I didn’t know if it was fate or destiny, God or a higher power that decided when a person”s time was up. Or maybe it was just… life. We were like a piece of machinery, bound to break down before becoming obsolete.

“Way to bring down your whole mood before the night even starts,” I said to myself in the same cynical, depressing tone that clung to me like a second skin.

I wondered what people would really think if they knew the darkness that played at my frayed edges, those coal-colored tendrils snaking their way through me, trying to wrap tightly around my body and pull me under until I was totally lost.

It was easy to pretend to be someone you’re not, like everything was fine, the same smile on my face giving the fallacy that I was happy, that I didn’t think of all the deviant things to do with a man, the one I envisioned who was faceless, who came to me in the night.

He wasn’t there to rescue me. He wasn’t my hero. He was the one who’d stain my skin with handprints, who’d force me to call out his name as he did things to me that I only ever thought up in my filthiest dreams.

I felt a flush steal over me even harder as those thoughts and images coursed through my mind like a record player, that turntable going round and round and round and round.

A sinner… is what I really was. The real me.

I shook my head, as it was almost an oxymoron. Could a virgin really be a sexual deviant?

I closed the tube of the lipstick, the one called Blood Red, and stared at my now red-painted mouth. The sound of the tube hitting my vanity and rolling across the smooth top before clanking to the hardwood echoed off my bedroom walls.

Blood Red. That’s what this shade was named. I only ever wore Pretty Pink in front of everyone… except when I went out. Except when I left the comfort of the suburbs and ventured deep into the city of Ryeka, New York.

It was like having twin beings trapped in one body.

The good-girl college student who didn’t have to work right now because her uncle had left her not only his Tudor home outside of Ryeka on five acres of land, but also a sizable estate.

Thatwoman kept her cardigans buttoned up and her pencil skirts pressed clean. Her hair was straightened and pinned out of her face. And she always wore Pretty Pinklipstick.

But then there was the woman I stared back at right now. I was still Kayla, but I was also something darker, someone who could pretend to not be lost in this world, yet I had no idea where to go or how to get there to ease that wandering ache.

My clothes weren’t modest. They never were when I went into the city, where the danger was close enough you could smell it in the car-exhaust-scented air, feel it from the heat rising from the pavement that had been cooking under the sun all day. No, this Kayla wore revealing strips of fabric with intricately—strategically—placed ribbons.

I lifted my hand and ran my finger along my bottom lip, smearing the redness across the side of my mouth and cheek, a macabre sight that if I imagined hard enough might be what I looked like after I got fucked.

A humorless laugh left me. Fucked. Yeah, something I honestly had no desire to participate in outside of my dreams and fantasies. Right? Something I had no experience with.

I cleaned up my face and headed out of the bedroom, down the hall and stairs, and grabbed my bag that sat on the table in the foyer.

My uncle’s Tudor-style house was surrounded by five acres of wooded land, only two of those acres actually now my own property. The remaining three were part of a wildlife conservation owned by the city. So although it wasn’t technically “mine,” several times a week I did walk through the forest. Even if I wasn’t supposed to.

But I liked to break the rules, going against the “good girl” persona that had always clung to me whether I wanted it to or not.

I opened the front door and left behind everything that wasn’t me.

When my uncle passed away and I found out he left me everything, I hadn’t bothered making it my own. The plates and cups, silverware in the drawers, and cupboards were the same as when he’d been alive, the things he used to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with.

I slept here, used its address to get my mail, but it wasn’t my home. It had never felt that way despite how many years I’d lived within these four walls.

And I didn’t think it would ever feel like that.

I’d ordered an Uber twenty minutes ago, and just as I pulled out my phone to check where it was, a flare of headlights flashed before coming closer up the driveway.

I tucked my phone back into my clutch and wrapped my arms around myself, the frigid February weather not as bad as it could be, but given the fact that I was scantily dressed for the club, every inch of bare skin was whipped and assaulted by the chill.

“Hey,” the young woman said as I opened the back door and slipped inside. “Kayla?”

I smiled and gave a nod. “That’s me.”

The woman typed out coordinates in her phone for downtown, and then we were on our way, the glow of the professionally landscaped property disappearing as darkness and trees surrounded us.

Aside from a minute amount of small talk, I was thankful my driver wasn’t very chatty. She would have found out that I was a poor conversationalist.

“Yeah, I’m doing drive-share to get some extra money for summer classes.”

The silence was broken up as she decided that now—five minutes before we arrived at the club—was a good time to tell me about her aspirations.

“Are you in school?” she asked.

I couldn’t see her eyes in the rearview mirror, but I felt her glance at me. “I am. I go to the university in the city.”

“Cool, cool,” she said. “What are you majoring in?”

“Psychology,” I replied absently as I stared out the window. A subject I picked because I wanted to find out what’s wrong with me.

She made a little sound of acknowledgment, but she didn’t delve into any more conversation, thank goodness.

I’m also in therapy, something I do purely to humor myself, to try to find out why I am the way I am, simply to figure out if I was programmed this way, or maybe past trauma—like losing my entire family—short-circuited my brain.

“And you?” I prompted after a few seconds, feeling obligated to ask in return. I always felt out of place when I was one-on-one with another person. Maybe that’s why I hit up the clubs frequently—because when you were surrounded by so many bodies, it was a very intimate experience. You are one among many, but you’re almost invisible despite all the bodies surrounding you.

It was hard to explain, harder to put into words, but yeah, when I was alone or even with a handful of people, it always felt so crowded, so impersonal.

I always wondered if I had some kind of antisocial personality, not something as far gone as being dissociative, but detached enough that I just couldn”t connect. I’d had meaningful relationships in school, throughout my life. I’d loved my uncle and connected with him on an emotional level. But even then, I still always felt a little bit out of reach, as if we were standing right in front of each other yet, if I held my hand out, I couldn’t touchhim, couldn”t really touch anyone.

They’d always be just a little farther back than I wanted, and I didn’t know how to fix that.

She finally pulled to a stop in front of the club, and I could already see the line was stretched around the building. I’d never been to Sinner before, the newest club in the city. And I wasn’t confident I’d actually get in tonight, not when it looked like there were so many people anxious to visit the top-tier nightclub.

But then I saw Sasha pretty close to the front of the line and couldn’t help but smile and shake my head. Of course she’d gotten here early enough she was probably one of the first in line.

After thanking my driver and getting out, I wrapped my arms around myself again as a gust of wind came from my left, pushing my long hair over my shoulder. Sasha spotted me and waved me over excitedly, her boldly red-painted full lips spreading across her straight, white teeth. She had her black hair piled up into a high ponytail, her olive-hued skin showcasing gold highlighter along her cheekbones and the tip of her nose. In other words, she looked absolutely gorgeous.

I wasn’t a woman who got jealous or envied other females over superficial things, but if I ever was going to be that type of person, Sasha would drive me there. Hell, I’d seen her without a stitch of makeup on and hungover as hell, and she was still beautiful, even with bags under her eyes.

I didn’t miss the nasty looks I got from some of the people waiting in line as I stepped up right beside Sasha. She gave me a quick hug, then stepped to the side slightly, and that’s when I saw the man standing beside her. He was tall and toned, his body like a swimmer’s. His dark hair was almost black in color, swept back from his forehead and highlighting his deep-brown eyes and sharp features. He had the same tanned complexion as Sasha, and now that I was really looking at him, I could see some facial similarities between them—the full lips, high cheekbones, and thick black lashes.

“Kayla, this is my cousin Salvatore. He’s here from Italy for work.”

Salvatore stepped forward and clasped my hand in both of his much larger ones before leaning down and kissing my skin, his gaze never leaving my face. I felt my eyes widen slightly, my brows no doubt up to my hairline. He smirked, a dimple popping in his cheek.

“Bellissima,” he said with a deeply accented voice before straightening and slowly letting go of my hand. “Sasha downplayed how beautiful you are.”

I looked over at Sasha with an arched eyebrow. She’d clearly been talking about me with him, and I didn’t question it because I had a sneaking suspicion I knew what was going on here. She was trying to set me up.

I looked back at Salvatore, his smirk still in place as he watched me intently. It was very clear he knew exactly how attractive he was, and he no doubt was used to a long line of women vying for his attention.

Before anyone could say anything else, the line was moving, and we were getting closer to the front. I listened as Salvatore took a call, and although I didn’t understand Italian, I was transfixed by the beautiful lilt of it.

Sasha started talking about one of the classes we were in together, but economics was not what I wanted to focus on right before I got drunk and danced without inhibitions.

When we finally got to the front of the line, I peeked around the corner and saw a set of heavy-duty doors being pushed open for the patrons to enter the club. The interior looked smoky, visibility a little hidden by the crush of bodies and low light. The doors shut, blocking the interior out again, and I straightened.

We stood in line for another five minutes before the massive bouncer stepped to the side and pulled aside the red velvet rope for us to enter. Sasha was all but bouncing as she led the way, Salvatore taking up the rear. She was about to push one of the thick doors open when it swung inward on its own. She looked over her shoulder at me with a massive grin on her face, like she’d just seen the greatest optical illusion or magic trick.

I was awestruck at the interior of the club. I’d expected it to be pretty incredible given the hype I’d heard about it, but the reason I was so awestruck was because it wasn’t flashy like many of the other nightclubs I’d been to.

No, Sinner was all dark aesthetics and downplayed elegance, as if the owner didn’t give two shits if someone hated it, because this was what they’d envisioned.

The building itself was an older industrial style, with metal beams going across the massive ceiling, and the interior was just one giant open floor plan.

The bar was at the far end of the room and lining an entire wall. The rainbow neon lights behind the bar were the only splash of actual “color” amid all the black and deep-red color scheme Sinner had going on.

The black floors, ceiling, and walls made the interior seem never ending, like a bottomless abyss that would swallow you whole. The chairs and booths were bloodred and tucked along the sides of the walls. Small table lamps were situated right in the center of the tables and gave off a low illumination that barely reached past the surface.

I glanced around the interior at the gyrating bodies as we made our way around the central dance floor area.

We were at the bar before I realized it, and I was surprised Salvatore took the lead and pushed a few people out of the way so we could lean against the gleaming, smooth black countertop.

I ran my fingertips over the polished stone. Although the decor of this place was pretty low-key in the grand scheme of things, I didn’t miss how lavish everything was. I’d never seen stone counters in a nightclub. And I was pretty sure the booths were real leather, the light fixtures glass and chrome. In other words, the owners hadn’t spared any expense, even if things were a little “bare.”

The music was loud, the beat moving deep into my bones. I could smell an array of scents, perfumes and colognes, sweat and lust. The latter was something I’d smelled before at these types of establishments, what with people grinding together, pheromones and arousal so high it touched the sky.

I turned my back toward the bar and faced the dancing crowd, the women scantily dressed, the men pressed tightly against them, hands roaming over every limb, every erogenous zone, before dipping beneath articles of clothing and disappearing. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the scents and sounds, the oppressive heat and humidity that seemed to surround me settle in and ease me.

I wasn’t alone, but I felt that familiar tingle of intimacy—not the sexual kind, but the kind I was eager for when I came to these places, when I went to disconnect, disassociate with who and what I was, the image of what everyone saw.

And the longer I stood there and let all of that seep into me, the more I felt my skin tightening, this tingling on the back of my neck taking root that was almost unpleasant as much as it was awakening.

I slowly opened my eyes and waited until my vision cleared. I looked around, because I knew someone was watching me. I could’ve pushed it away with the fact that I was in a nightclub and somebody was bound to look in my direction.

But that’s not what this was. This was the heavy sense of a possessive, unyielding gaze locked on me.

I looked up to my left and noticed a line of windows high above the dance floor, the glass too dark to see through, the reflection almost like an onyx mirror. And although I couldn’t see who was on the other side, I felt them watching me. I couldn’t tear my gaze away if my life depended on it, if my sanity was hanging on by a thread.

I felt something cool and wet touch the back of my arm, and it was the only thing that snapped me out of my haze. I turned and faced Sasha and Salvatore, seeing a glass with condensation in his hand as he held it out to me. I didn’t know what it was, but it was colorful with a little umbrella shoved inside.

I brought the glass to my lips and took a long drink, letting the cool, powerful alcohol slide down my throat. It burned on its descent, settling in my belly before causing a slow burn to consume me from the inside out.

“I was going to say bottoms up,” Sasha said loudly beside my ear, and I couldn”t help but smile broadly. “But it looks like you’re ready to unwind.” I finished off my drink, and Sasha took it out of my hand before shoving it toward Salvatore’s chest.

He gave me a wink and turned toward the bar, and within a few moments he produced two more fresh cocktails for us.

“Down the hatches,” Sasha said loudly, and as I downed my drink, feeling the alcohol work its magic through my bloodstream, I already felt the stress of life start to fade into the background.

Once our second drinks were consumed, Sasha took my hand and led me to the dance floor, and I couldn’t help but laugh, feeling how light my head started to become as the haziness of the liquor moved through my veins.

Yet despite the world fading away as I let go and moved to the beat of the music, I still felt that intense sensation of being watched.