All Chapters of Teach me to sin II (Sins of the past): Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

My heart is still slamming against my ribs when Wakeem lets go of Kaylie’s arm and steps back like he’s presenting a gift. A gift wrapped in bruises and trembling hands. My mother—alive. Breathing. Standing—or trying to—while her knees buckle like her bones have forgotten how to hold her. Her hair is a tangled mess hanging around her face. Her clothes are wrinkled and dirty, clinging to her like they’re afraid to fall off. Her eyes… God. Her eyes are the worst. They’re wide, unfocused, glittering with that glazed, frantic shine that I’ve prayed for years I would never see again. She’s high. So high she’s practically floating. My stomach flips. Not because she’s alive. But because I wish she weren’t. She gasps when she sees me tied up on the floor. “Ellie… baby… my girl…” she whispers, reaching for me with hands that won’t stop shaking. Wakeem laughs softly, like the entire scene is a comedy show. “I love a good family reunion,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you two some pri

Pain comes in waves. At first, it was just in the edges of my fingers—tiny needles of numbness spreading from the rope cinched around my wrists. Then it crawled up my hands, then my arms, then sank into my bones like teeth. I try not to cry again—I’ve cried enough to drown myself—but every breath tastes like salt and metal and dirt. I’m still on the floor. Still tied. Still exhausted and terrified. Still in Wakeem the King’s hellhouse. But the worst part isn’t the ropes burning my skin. It’s the silence. Kaylie is gone. Dragged away. Barely human anymore. Everything she said—no, every word that I said to her—still hangs in the room like smoke. “I hate you.” “You ruin everything you touch.” “You got Elijah killed.” “I hope you die.” I meant every syllable. I hate myself for meaning them.I hate how I enjoyed Kaylie scream from the pain that my words inflicted on her. That selfish bitch. I hope she burns in hell for this shit.My chest shakes once. Twice. And then…

Eloise is shaking so hard the seatbelt rattles. Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts. Her good hand clutches her broken wrist as if she’s trying to keep the bones from spilling out. She’s covered in dirt, blood—some hers, most not. Tears streak down her face faster than she can wipe them away. I drive. Streetlights flash rhythmically across her face—white, shadow, white, shadow. Her eyes stay locked on the windshield, unfocused and glassy. Shock. Pain. Terror. All of it sits inside her. “Breathe, Ellie,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Slow. You’re okay now.” But she’s not okay. Not yet. And we both know it. She presses her forehead to the window and lets out a small, wounded sob. The kind that guts a man from the inside. I speed through the empty road, pushing eighty, ninety—far enough to get away from the fire, the bodies, the smoke. Far enough that nobody will see the man…… the father who just tore apart a compound like a war machine. She sniffles. “My… my wrist…

By the time I reached the hospital, I felt like I was wearing a version of myself I didn’t recognize.I was too calm, too clean, too controlled for what I’d just done. My clothes were fresh, my hands were steady, but inside me… the shadows were still vibrating. I stepped into the hallway and saw Alex and Marilyn before they saw me. The second Alex lifted his head, the anger in his eyes hit me like a slap. He stormed toward me. “Where the hell have you been?” he snapped, voice sharp, shaking. “You’ve been unreachable for hours, Tristan. Hours!!! We thought—Marilyn thought—” He cut himself off, chest rising too fast. “You’re supposed to be her father. You’re supposed to care. You’re supposed to answer your phone—” “Alex—” “No.” His voice cracked on the word. “Don’t give me excuses!! I don’t want to hear any of your ducking excuses. You had no reason not to be here.” “Alex,” Marilyn said, tugging on his arm. He jerked away from her. “You vanish,” he said, eyes wet and

Two weeks. Two stupid, dragging, suffocating weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Eloise since Tristan called me — voice low, tired, but steady — telling me she was alive. Safe. Breathing. Being treated. Recovering. He told me not to go to the hospital. Not to call. Not to text. Not to hover. Not to pry. I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. If he said she needed space, then she needed space. But that didn’t stop me from barely sleeping. Didn’t stop my stomach from twisting every time someone whispered “Eloise” like it was a ghost’s name. And now here I am — in Julius’ class — pretending to take notes while my knee bounces uncontrollably. “Calm down,” Gabrielle whispers beside me, nudging my arm. “I am calm,” I lie, tapping my pen so hard it might snap. She raises a brow, unconvinced. “Ruby, you’re practically vibrating. If you shake any harder, you’ll fall off the chair.” I glare at her. She smiles. But then a knock interrupts the room, and Mr Julius