Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2)(43)

To him I was an entrepreneur, harbinger, and founder all in one.

Because inside me resided not a man who could take orders and make them a reality, nor was I employee who obeyed what his commander told him.

I was so much more than that.

I had a goal. A goal that mirrored Wallstreet’s. One that made us a match made in heaven.

He wanted more, too.

In fact, he wanted everything.

And the only way to get everything was to rule everyone.

And who ruled everyone?

The men who made the laws.

The motherf*cking government.





Chapter Thirteen


Cleo


Would he ever be satisfied?

I’d never admit it aloud, but I was afraid I wasn’t enough for him. I wanted to give him everything. He already owned my heart and soul—I had nothing else to give. Most of the time, it seemed like enough. But then there were the other times. The times where I’d catch him watching me with hunger in his eyes. Hunger that had nothing to do with lust or friendship. Hunger that I didn’t understand. —Cleo, diary entry, age fourteen



“Where did you learn to cook?”

I perched on the marble countertop in a singlet and panties as Arthur moved swiftly and surely around the pristine kitchen. His boxer briefs left his legs naked and seductive—the redheaded mermaid inked into his thigh twitched her tail with his every step. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the delicious sight he made with shaggy, bed-mussed hair, tight boxers, and the charcoal T-shirt he’d thrown on highlighting his toned chest.

As much as I loved his mermaid tattoo and the Libra star signs hidden in the whitewash of a wave, I was glad his T-shirt covered his full-back tattoo with its Dagger Rose emblem drawn over by Pure Corruption. It spoke of two responsibilities and oaths. Two sentences and obligations. The ink cast a terrible premonition that Arthur wasn’t free—that he was bound to others.

He’s bound to me, no one else. Even if Arthur is so loyal to Wallstreet.

I didn’t know why, but whenever I thought about Wallstreet I grew temperamental. Arthur explained a little about why he was so steadfast to that man, but to me it seemed like Wallstreet was the biggest user of all.

I won’t stand for it.

Especially after everything Arthur had done for him.

“I never learned. Self-taught I suppose,” Arthur replied, pulling out bowls and chopsticks. “I don’t do it often. Too busy.” His eyes darkened. “And what’s the point of cooking when it’s only for one?”

Throwing me a look twisted with levity, he couldn’t hide the hint of self-pity.

He’s been so lonely.

Redirecting the conversation to lighter things, I joked, “I assumed you couldn’t even boil water.”

“Why?” He chuckled. “Because you still see the boy who burned everything his mother tried to teach?”

My mind filled with images of Diane Killian laughing hilariously as smoke spewed from her oven for the thirtieth time. Arthur was never destined to follow her and become a baker. Not with his track record.

Kicking my legs, banging my naked heels against the glossy cabinets, I smiled. “No, I assumed because of all the fancy delivered meals. Those weekly menus are fabulous but not exactly conducive to getting someone in the kitchen.”

Grabbing a strainer, he plopped steaming hot water and rice noodles into it, letting the water sift into the sink. “I’m hurt that you have such little faith in me.” He spun around to splat the noodles into a wok filled with soy sauce and other spices, but he stumbled and grabbed the counter instead.

Immediately, my heart skyrocketed. “You okay?” I gripped the marble edge, ready to hurl myself across the space and grab him.

A second ticked past before he moved—slower this time. “I’m fine. Stop fussing. You’ll drive me crazy.” With measured strokes, he turned on the gas and tossed the now glistening and fragrant rice noodles, before folding shallots and bean sprouts into the mess.

Biting my lip, I didn’t say a word as he kept his back toward me and cooked. I didn’t know if his reluctance to face me was due to his concussion or just concentration on his culinary masterpiece.

Either way, I didn’t take my eyes off him the entire time he cooked.

Finally, with the scent of exotic dinner making my mouth water, Arthur divided up the portions and presented a perfect Pad Thai.

My mouth popped open. “Wow, Art. It looks scrumptious.”

“Oh, wait.” He headed to the pantry, grabbed a packet of crushed peanuts, and scattered a pinch over the steamy noodles. “Now it’s ready.”

Lifting his bowl to my nose, he said, “Sniff. Does it smell authentic?”

I inhaled deeply, instantly recognizing the spicy allurement of chilies and the mouthwatering aroma of garlic. “Yes. It smells exactly like a Pad Thai from my local takeout.”

Arthur scowled. “Takeout? Really. You never got to travel with your foster family?”

“No.” I looked away. “They tried to take me to Corfu once, but I refused.”

“Why?”

I shivered as the old lostness and fear of my mind-black-hole came back. “Because I was afraid of going somewhere where I might’ve been before. Afraid of running into people who …” My eyes trailed to my scars. They were answer enough.