Sinful Hearts: Chapter 7

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Three full, long minutes after Hades leaves, I’m still standing in the middle of my office.

Motionless. Stunned. Staring that the door, trying to remember how to breathe.

A heated shiver creeps up my spine. Flashes of gasped breathes, of fingers and limbs twisting in bedsheets, of nails dragging down his muscled back. Of sweat and pleasure. Of stars flashing in front of my eyes as my body came completely undone at his touch.

I flinch, shuddering and wrenching myself back into the present, blinking as I stare vacantly at the closed door of my office.

I’m losing it.

Hades doesn’t “know”. Of course he doesn’t. If he did, he would have one hundred percent rubbed my face in it, or used it as leverage, or dangled my dirty, sinful secret over my head to gleefully make me dance, and beg him not to tell anyone.

Or he’d have used it to fuck me again.

I tremble, heat throbbing dangerously between my thighs. Then I force myself to take a long, deep breath.

He doesn’t know. There’s no damn way he does. Obviously, all he said was “enjoy your weekend”. And me, being freaked out that he was standing in front of me less than twelve hours after claiming every single inch of my body and redefining my definition of orgasm, simply misheard.

I outright invented that last “kitten”, although I have no freaking idea what he could have said that like kitten.

I shiver again before I march across the room and lock the door again.

Not that that stopped him before. I know damn well I locked this when I left work yesterday afternoon, and I also know the cleaners don’t forget to lock up when they’re done.

No. He doesn’t know. That wasn’t him rubbing it in my face. That was just Hades being, you know, . Cocky, obnoxious, arrogant. A bully. A lunatic. A shameless manwhore.

Heat floods my face again as I force myself back to my desk chair.

He doesn’t know, and that’s the end of that. It has to be, or I’m just going to drown in this thing until I fall apart. I’ll just file it away in that lock-box in my head—the place I store and hide anything that trips me up, or pulls me away from my planned trajectory.

Which, obviously, isn’t healthy, as all four of the therapists I’ve seen since I was seventeen have told me, repeatedly. But it is what it is. It’s how I deal. How I keep breathing, both for me, and for Nora. I take all the things that drag me down or lie across the path in front of me, and shove them deep into the very back of a closet I can then forget about.

One day, of course, the closet will have to be cleaned out.

But not today.

That’s how I’ve managed to get where I am. And, not to toot my own horn hard, but you don’t get to be where I am, at the age of just twenty-six, without some seriously unhealthy mental health habits. But, therapy will still exist later, once I’ve hit my stride and can finally take a breath. Once I’ve created an iron-clad life for Nora and myself I can fix the parts of myself that got broken along the way.

Until then, though, this train doesn’t stop. For anything.

Certainly not for Hades fucking Drakos. Or his mind games.

I flush deeply, shaking those thoughts from my head for the last time. Then I do what I always do to bury or hide away things I don’t want to deal with: I open my laptop.

And I work.

For Nora. For me. For the future. Because I will be our mother, chained to a life that grinds her under its heel and to a man who controls her, hurts her, and takes away everything that makes her herself.

I’ve been running from that potential future since I was fourteen. And nothing, not even the God of Hell himself, is going to stop me now.

“Stop.”

I gasp, almost spilling my coffee. I spin toward the voice behind me.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”

Fumi—my colleague who has the office next to mine, and who’s also my real friend in New York—makes a face as she leans against the door frame. It’s not uncommon for her to launch directly into the middle of a conversation, whether you’re in a scheduled meeting or in neighboring bathroom stalls.

But normally it doesn’t give me a heart attack like a jump scare moment in a horror movie.

I blame the cocky and gorgeous menace that broke into my office two days ago.

“Sorry,” Fumi winces, tucking a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. “I just had something really important to ask you.”

I nod as sink into my office chair and gingerly take a sip of my steaming hot coffee.

“Of course. Come in.”

She steps into my office and drops into one of the two chairs across the desk from me, nodding slowly as she taps her fingertips together meditatively.

My brows knit. “Is this about the Chesterman case? I talked to their family counsel on Friday afternoon. He seemed to think they’d be amenable to a—”

“Nice try, but I’m not asking about work.”

I swallow, arching a brow as a grin spreads across Fumi’s face.

“Okay…”

Her grin widens. “How was your weekend?”

I lift an easy shoulder. “Fine, mostly. I just stayed in and caught up on work. Made sure Nora didn’t get into any trouble. Dinner in. You know, the usual.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” she nods slowly, her dark eyes locked on mine.

I clear my throat. “So, how was your—”

“I’m just wondering which part of catching up on work, managing your teenage sister, and cooking dinner gave you your hickeys.”

My face explodes with heat as my hand flies to my neck—only to remember quickly that I’m wearing a silk scarf around it. I simmer, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

“What hickeys?”

Fumi rolls her eyes. “Really? You’re a professional lawyer and you’re actually at lying?”

I purse my lips, trying to will the heat from my face.

“I’m not —”

“Objection. You’ve never been into neck scarves.”

“Maybe I want to give them a go.”

“How very Parisian of you.”

When my face burns even hotter, she just grins wider.

“C’mon! We don’t work for a fucking convent, Elsa. You’re allowed to go out and get your freak on. But…” She shakes her head, sighing heavily.

“But…what?”

“But you have to fucking , so I can live vicariously through your sexcapades!”

I can feel the redness engulfing my face. But I still force a snorted laugh and a roll of my eyes.

“It’s nothing like that, trust me.”

She groans. “Elsa! We have to present a united front on this! Sisters helping sisters! I gory details. Now go! And don’t you dare tell me you’ve forgotten the pact.”

I grin widely. “The pact” is something that came out of a long night of drinking after work one day, not long after I joined Crown and Black. Both of us were commiserating about being married to our jobs, and how we didn’t understand how anyone working the hours we worked could possibly find the time to date, even casually.

It was comforting enough to hear that I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. But coming from someone like her, it made me feel even more seen. Because with her Japanese father and Korean-Italian mother, Fumi is freaking . Like, outrageously, knocking it out of the park, winning-the-genetic-lottery beautiful.

So if even wasn’t even finding dates, it really was the job. Not my neurotic nature. Or at least, not entirely that.

Our drunken pact was a two-parter: one, if we were both still completely and utterly married to Crown and Black by the age of thirty, we’d marry each other. Not because of any latent gay tendencies. But solely to make sure neither of us died alone only to be eaten by the cat, or something tragic like that.

The other part of the pact was that one of us would tell the other if and when she somehow, by some miracle, managed to go on a date or, better yet, get laid.

Fumi, as close a friend as she is, does know that I am—or —a twenty-six-year-old virgin, though. Because who the hell wants to have that conversation?

I laugh and wave a dismissive hand. “It’s seriously not what you think. I saw some TikTok or something with this girl wearing one, and thought I’d try rocking the scarf look. That’s it.”

“Oh, okay,” Fumi nods. “Well, if that’s all—”

She’s up before I can even register it, lunging around my desk and yanking the scarf off before I can stop her.

“Hey—!”

“I !” she crows triumphantly.

My face burns hotly as I yank the scarf back into place.

“Details, woman! Now!”

I groan. “It was really nothing. I went to this dumb club—”

“Ugh, I hate clubs.”

I know this. And same. But Fumi means clubs, not the kinky and dangerous sex club variety.

“Exactly. And as a perfect example of why we do, this guy was all over me.”

She scowls. “Like, didn’t take no for an answer ? Because I’ll fucking stab him.” She shrugs. “Legally speaking.”

I grin. “No, no, it was fine.”

She arches a quizzical brow. “Are there more hickeys…

?”

I flush hotly.

“

, jeez. It was just this dumb thing.”

“Did you…”

“No!” I blurt, shaking my head. “We never left the club.”

“And will there be a repeat performance? Like, should I be stocking up on fashionable neck scarves for future Christmas and birthday presents?”

I roll my eyes. “I was just having some drinks and blowing off some steam. That was it. We didn’t even trade names.”

She groans appreciatively. “God, that sounds hot. Lie to me. Tell me you banged him in the bathroom, or at least got fingered under the bar. Give me for the wank-bank, for fuck’s sakes.”

I blush deeply, shaking my head as I roll my eyes. “You need professional help.”

“No, I need ”

“Ms. Guin.”

I jolt at the sound of my boss’ voice in my doorway. Fumi turns the color of skim milk, going absolutely stock-still as Gabriel Black’s deep, rough baritone rumbles into my office.

“A moment?”

“Of course, Mr. Black.”

Taylor and I are on a first-name basis, at her insistence. Alistair is the same way, so long as we’re not with clients.

Gabriel is unequivocally, unimpeachably, “Mr. Black”, and God help anyone who tries to call him anything else. Though to be honest, with his black hair, black eyes, and swarthy jaw that somehow always makes me think of an eighteenth-century pirate king or something equally menacing, “Mr. Black” does fit him rather well.

Fumi grimaces at me before typing something at lighting speed on her phone. Mine buzzes on the desk in front of me, a text from her reading “he did not hear me say that, right?” popping up on the screen. I glance at her and give her the most subtle head shake side-to-side.

Even if I’m at least fifty percent sure he just hear her say she needed dick.

Fumi stands, clearing her throat and taking a breath before she turns to smile brightly and professionally at our boss.

“Good morning, Mr. Black.”

“Ms. Yamaguchi,” he growls. She darts past him and out the door.

When we’re alone, Gabriel closes my office door and then leans against it.

“How’s the Chesterman case going?”

It’s funny. Up till last week, even given how cool I am with Taylor and Alistair, Gabriel Black has always thrown me off a little. I mean he throws off to varying degrees, ranging from “a little” to “pee-your-pants”, which is kind of his evil superpower. It’s also what makes him a viciously ruthless and successful lawyer.

But now, in the three days since I last saw him, I’ve come face to face with a more ferocious darkness.

A more lethal villain.

A more consuming force of nature.

And I’m realizing that it’s a little tough to be intimidated by anyone, even Gabriel Black, after you’ve fucked the God of Hell.

Four times.

“Great, actually,” I beam. “I spoke to the family’s personal counsel last week, and I think they’ll be amenable to a settlement. Nobody on their side wants to see the inside of a courtroom.”

He nods slowly. “Good. Keep me up to date, but feel free to proceed as you see fit.”

“Of course, Mr. Black. Thank you.”

I smile. He doesn’t. He just stands there, his dark brow furrowed.

“Is there something else I could help you with?”

“There is.” He clears his throat. “Ms. Crown and I just got out of a meeting with Gavan Tsarenko.”

I nod. Gabriel’s eyes narrow slightly.

“He’d like to speak to you.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I have no illusions that this has to do with anything other than my father, Gavan’s top captain.

“Oh? When did he want to set up a meet—”

“Right now.”

My pulse grows weak.

“Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all.”

He nods, getting ready to go. “Good. Oh, and you’re still fine for tonight?”

I resist the urge to grimace. Tonight, I’m meeting a potential new Crown and Black client for a pitch dinner. On the one hand, I’m honored that the name partners have the faith in me to do this solo.

On the other hand, Howard Kenmore, the potential client, specifically me. Howard is fifty-three, disgustingly wealthy, and has a very public history of dating petite blondes less than half his age, the last two of which wore thick-rimmed glasses.

Obviously, this begs the somewhat troubling question of whether I’m going out tonight to pitch Howard on Crown and Black, or to audition to be his next girlfriend.

But of course, I’m not mentioning my concerns to Gabriel. Instead, I just nod and smile. “Of course.”

“Excellent. Oh, and don’t overthink the Gavan thing. He’s about to dump a lot more work on us—much more than Taylor can reasonably be expected to handle herself. I think he just wants to meet a few of our top people who’ll be taking on some of that work. It’s all above-board. Don’t let the rumors spook you.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Black.”

He nods and raps his knuckles against the door behind him. Then he’s gone.