Francine Rivers The Last Sin Eater Novels & Stories

That night Adrian and I were in bed reviewing the final guest list when my phone rang with an unknown number. "Emma Ashford?" a woman's voice said when I answered. "Yes, who is this?" "My name is Jennifer Corso," she said. "Richard's wife. I'm calling because I think we need to talk." I put it on speaker so Adrian could hear. "About what?" "About my husband's obsession with destroying your family," Jennifer said. "And about making sure it actually stops this time." Adrian and I looked at each other. "I thought it already stopped," Adrian said. "He called to apologize months ago."

In the blink of an eye, the courtyard was full, sisters, old men, and women of Edevane, orphans, were all trooping in. “Have you had something to eat?” Sister Marianne asked. “I’m not hungry” I shook my head. She didn’t push it, she only shook her head. She was the only softness left here. I helped her wash the dirty dishes, but in an instant, I felt chills run down my spine. I could feel someone was watching me. I turned around to look, but I saw nothing. Must have been the wind or maybe my sinful thoughts trailed me like a ghost.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even when fucking beautiful Italian women. All his injuries had healed—save for his knuckles, always split and raw from punching walls. But the guilt? That didn't scar over as easily. Florence was supposed to be a getaway. A much needed break. A temporary vanishing act—arranged by the six ghosts he used to call his team. Calvin had been the one to book the hotel. Olivia made the itinerary. Peter picked restaurants. And the other three? They promised they’d bring in the ‘fun’.

Jennifer remarked and yes, it was true but I didn’t dare to speak out. “I know but sometimes such pushes are necessary to eliminate fear,” He remarked back. Jennifer shook her head. I averted my gaze and got out of Jennifer’s hold to grab the railing. Jennifer lapped into the water while I eyed through the long glass windows that displayed the beauty of Italy. My God, it was exceptional. Something I never encountered before. Dim light, lukewarm water, slow instrumental music and peace residing around me. I could hear Jennifer kissing Luciano but I couldn’t care less.

Her thighs start to shake around my head, her breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum… Selina!” I don’t stop. I suck her clit hard and curl my fingers deep, rubbing that spot mercilessly until she explodes. Clarissa screams, her whole body convulsing as her pussy clamps rhythmically around my fingers, flooding my mouth with her sweet juices. I crawl up her body, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on my tongue. She moans into the kiss, clinging to me, her hands roaming over my ass.

Her first thought was that Klaire had recorded their interaction and posted it online, but then she saw something even worse. Klaire Owen killed herself in the name of Casey Miller.

I'm on my hands and knees now, clutching my belly and trying to crawl over to the hopefully still alive guard. All the guards around here are vampires or some sort of supernatural being... How could a human knocked them out so quickly! "W- ugh, w-wake up... Please!" I croak, shaking Francis continously with my free hand. I pry open an eyelid, looking for any brain activity, but all I see are white orbs like snow, with their original colour- once a deep brown- rolled to the back of his head. I try to scream again, try to call for anyones help just to get me away from this psychopath, but that all becomes impossible when I a hard, flat surface somehow break and shatter into pieces over my head

“Entertain me.” “Amolet has a mate, Ira,” Sinful says suddenly. My head whips to him, but he looks away from me, smiling ruefully at Ira, whose mouth pops open curiously. I can’t bring myself to look toward Cian, but I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, the pressure in the way it examines my face for answers. Ira slowly turns toward me, smiling sickly. “Really? Who?” “Some mortal from her hometown,” Sinful says before I have a chance to fumble with a story, my mind unable to grasp what he’s announced. “I took one look at her and could tell she had met her mate.”

It reminded me of poisoned honey. I lifted my head slowly, still shivering from the cold and now maybe fear. There she was —Florence. She was perfectly dressed in the chiffon dress, glass of red wine in hand. Her legs crossed while her eyes narrowed with disgust as they raked my body—from my torn red dress to my dirty little bare feet.

My phone buzzed, breaking the silence. Beatrice: Mr. Washington called again. He says he’s serious about seeing you. I swallowed hard and typed back: To Beatrice: Tell him I’m here when he is. The next morning, the city woke slower, as if it too was savoring the quiet before the inevitable storm. I slipped into my routine, the sleek black pants, the perfect blouse, the precise application of makeup that hid every trace of last night’s restless thoughts. Luxe demanded perfection, and perfection was a mask I wore well.