Todos los capítulos de 100 WAYS TO SIN: Capítulo 401 - Capítulo 410

Tessa Wednesday came with rain and a text from Jake that he was staying at a friend’s after work. I stood in the kitchen reading it twice. Not a warm message. Not an invitation back into ordinary brother territory. Just space, offered without softness. I sent back okay and left the door unlocked for Noah like I said I would. He arrived wet from the short run between his car and the porch, hair darkened by the rain, hoodie damp at the shoulders. He took one look at my face and paused with the door still open. “What happened.” “Jake’s not coming home tonight.” Something eased and sharpened in him at the same time. He shut the door, locked it, and crossed the kitchen. The kiss landed hungry and unrestrained. No brother in the house. No music through the wall. No clock running toward eleven. I pulled the wet hoodie off him and dropped it on the floor. His hands were cold from the rain when they slid under my shirt. I shivered and pushed closer. “Bedroom,” I said. “Here first.” He

Roman I slept in pieces the way I always did on a new detail. Guest room. Door cracked. Chair angled toward the hall. Secondary had the main corridor until 0700. My phone sat face up on the nightstand with the building feeds mirrored in a private window the agency preferred we not talk about in elevators. Sloane Mercer’s apartment made soft night sounds through the wall. Pipes. A refrigerator cycle. Once, around 0200, footsteps that paused near her bedroom door and then retreated. She did not come out. I did not get up. That was the job. Hear everything. React only when it mattered. By 0615 I was showered and in a clean shirt. Secondary handed off in the hall with a short report. Nothing on the perimeter. Nothing on the street cameras. The threat profile had not changed overnight. Credible. Funded. Patient. The kind of crew that watched patterns for weeks before they moved. Sloane’s father paid for the anxiety of rich men who knew what their daughters were worth to the wrong peopl

Roman I lasted until Saturday night. Secondary called in sick at 2100. The agency sent a replacement who could not arrive before midnight. That left me alone in Sloane Mercer’s apartment with three hours of open corridor and a client who had spent the week closing every inch of professional distance I tried to keep. She knew it too. I briefed her on the delay in the living room. She listened with her legs tucked under her on the couch and an expression that was too calm for the information. When I finished she nodded once and went to the kitchen. I took my position near the windows and watched the street because looking at her in that soft top with her hair down was becoming a liability I could measure in elevated heart rate. At 2140 she came back with two glasses of water and set one on the table near me. “You’re going to stand there until midnight.” “Yes.” “You can sit.” “I’m fine.” “You’re exhausting.” I did not answer. She stayed in the kitchen doorway and dr

Roman The lockdown lifted at 0140. Agency said the vehicle had moved on. Street cameras clean. Secondary took the hall. I told Sloane to sleep. She looked at me like she did not believe any of it and went to her room with the door left open the same way she always did. I sat in the guest room and watched the feeds until my eyes burned. I should have trusted the wrong silence less. At 0915 she had a confirmed appointment at her father’s foundation office across town. Low risk on paper. Controlled building. I drove. She sat in the passenger seat in a coat over a dark dress and did not push me for conversation. The almost-kiss in the hallway the night before sat between us unspoken. The surveillance flag sat beside it. I checked mirrors more than usual. The foundation’s private garage was supposed to be secured. It was not. I registered the wrong detail too late. A service van with a logo that did not match the building’s vendor list. A second man near the stairwell door who turne

Roman I woke before she did with her leg thrown over mine and the bar still down on the safe house door. Morning light cut thin through the blinds. Sloane’s hair was a dark mess on my chest. The bruise on her wrist had deepened to purple. My skull ached under the stitches. None of it mattered as much as the fact that she was here, breathing, naked against me, instead of in a chair in a blacked-out room by the river. My phone had twelve missed messages from the agency. I ignored them. Sloane stirred when I shifted. Her eyes opened slow. For a second she looked lost. Then she found my face and the tension left her body in a long exhale. “Still here,” she said. “Still here.” She climbed over me without warning. Straddled my hips. The sheet fell off her back. In the gray light she looked wrecked and hungry and done with careful. My cock hardened against the heat of her immediately. She felt it and rolled her hips once, dragging her wet cunt along the length of me. “Sloane.