SIN BOUND

Chapter 4: Touch Me Like You Hate Me

I didn’t mean to spy on him.

Not really.

But when I heard the shower running—hot, steady, and loud—my curiosity dragged me closer. Just down the hall. Just outside the door. Just for a second.

Steam curled out from the cracked bathroom door like a secret escaping.

And inside, he was humming.

Low, dark, and haunting.

Saint, the man who barely spoke, was humming in the shower like he had no ghosts. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like he hadn’t just told me I belonged to him like a thing.

I stepped closer. The floor creaked.

The water stopped.

Shit.

A second later, the door opened fast—and there he was.

Wet. Bare chest. Towel low on his hips. His hair damp, dripping at the ends. Water clung to every hard line of muscle like it worshipped him.

And his eyes… they burned through me.

“You watching me now, little thief?” he said.

I swallowed. “You left the door open.”

“And you walked right into temptation,” he growled. “Are you brave… or just stupid?”

“I don’t know anymore,” I whispered.

He stepped forward. I stepped back.

He followed.

I turned—tried to leave—but he grabbed my wrist. Gently. Firm. His thumb traced the edge of my pulse, slow, dangerous.

“Why’d you really come to me that night?” he asked.

“I told you—”

“I know what you said. I want what you meant.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Did you come to escape… or to be taken?”

I hated how that made my stomach flip. How my breath caught.

How his touch made me feel seen and shaken at the same time.

“I didn’t ask to belong to anyone,” I said.

He pulled me closer. My chest brushed his.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “You walked into my world. You breathed in my space. Now your scent’s all over my sheets. You belong to me whether you admit it or not.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” His hand slid to my jaw, holding me still. “You run like you’ve been caged. You flinch like someone’s hurt you. And you kiss like you’re scared to feel something real.”

My lips parted. “I never kissed you.”

His voice dropped to something deadly soft.

“Not yet.”

And then—he did.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was hunger.

His mouth took mine like he was claiming something. Like he needed the taste to survive. Like he was angry I hadn’t already given it to him.

I kissed him back.

Because I was tired of pretending I didn’t want danger.

Because I was tired of wanting something soft and being broken anyway.

Because his kind of love—violent, desperate, possessive—was the only kind that could match my fire.