Read Online Sins of the Storm by Jenna Mills - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jenna Mills
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image taunted, of Jack…on top of her. All alone. In the darkness. With no one to hear or see…no one to know. “I don’t want to be on opposite sides,” she said, quieter this time. “I don’t want to pretend—”
She broke off and looked beyond him, toward the empty porch swing.
“Pretend what?”
There was a note to his voice she didn’t understand, an ache she’d not heard since she’d turned around to see him holding a gun on her. “Pretend you’re the enemy.”
Nothing prepared her for him to move. Nothing prepared her for him to lift a hand to her face and ease the hair behind her ear. “I’m not.”
And with the words, something inside her shifted. “But you’re not Jacques, either,” she said. “When I look at you—” at his dark edgy eyes and the lines of his face, the hard mouth that had once been impossibly soft “—when you look at me…it’s like the past isn’t even there.”
Except for then. It was there in that moment, glowing in his eyes like one of the candles on that long-ago night, when she’d wanted nothing more than for him to see she wasn’t a little girl anymore—and she wasn’t his sister.
“We can’t live in the past, cher. ”
The crickets still sang. She knew that. The cicadas and the toads, they were there. They always were. But Jack’s words echoed through her, drowning out everything else.
“No,” she said. “We can’t.”
Stillness breathed through the old house. Outside the glow of twilight had faded into night, leaving only darkness. She walked on anyway, moving from room to room as if not a day, a year, had passed.
Jack followed. He’d known she would show up here just as surely as he’d known he would be waiting. But the change rocked him. He’d come to expect secrets from her. He’d come to expect determination. During those dark years after her father’s death she’d spun so far and dangerously out of control….
He’d tried to bring her back. Every time he’d looked at those desperate, devastated eyes, every time he’d heard the whispers, the allegations that his father had been the one to pull the trigger, that that’s why Gator Savoie vanished…it had been like a knife twisting in his gut.
But in the end, the responsibility he’d felt for Camille had led him to violate a line that should never have been touched, much less crossed.
Now he watched her walk down the long hallway of her childhood, this woman she’d become, all grown-up with a woman’s body and a woman’s smile, the slow burn of a woman’s eyes….
And the enormity of his mistake burned.
She wasn’t a stranger. The girl was still there, buried beneath countless layers of scar tissue. She was still there…and she still ached for all she’d lost.
At the second to last room she hesitated, glanced back for a long heartbeat before stepping inside. And even before he followed, even before he lifted his flashlight, he knew the walls would be pale yellow, and that he’d find her crossing the matted carpet. On the far side she stopped and lifted a hand to the mural her mother had painted. It was a garden scene, Jack remembered, and Gloria Fontenot had immortalized Camille’s kittens chasing a butterfly through daffodils.
“I’d forgotten,” she whispered, and then she turned, exposing him to the saddest smile he’d ever seen. “I’d forgotten about the flowers.”
He looked away.
“How does that happen, Jack? How do we just…forget?”
The question pierced.
The answer pierced deeper. People forgot, because they had to. People forgot, because remembering was too brutal.
“Time goes by,” he said. “Things that aren’t important just…fade.”
Something dark and jagged flickered in her eyes. “But this was important. This room, these flowers…” She went down on her knees, and before she even lifted a hand, he directed the beam of light to the daffodils. “Sugar and Spice,” she said, tracing the images of the two black-and-white
She broke off and looked beyond him, toward the empty porch swing.
“Pretend what?”
There was a note to his voice she didn’t understand, an ache she’d not heard since she’d turned around to see him holding a gun on her. “Pretend you’re the enemy.”
Nothing prepared her for him to move. Nothing prepared her for him to lift a hand to her face and ease the hair behind her ear. “I’m not.”
And with the words, something inside her shifted. “But you’re not Jacques, either,” she said. “When I look at you—” at his dark edgy eyes and the lines of his face, the hard mouth that had once been impossibly soft “—when you look at me…it’s like the past isn’t even there.”
Except for then. It was there in that moment, glowing in his eyes like one of the candles on that long-ago night, when she’d wanted nothing more than for him to see she wasn’t a little girl anymore—and she wasn’t his sister.
“We can’t live in the past, cher. ”
The crickets still sang. She knew that. The cicadas and the toads, they were there. They always were. But Jack’s words echoed through her, drowning out everything else.
“No,” she said. “We can’t.”
Stillness breathed through the old house. Outside the glow of twilight had faded into night, leaving only darkness. She walked on anyway, moving from room to room as if not a day, a year, had passed.
Jack followed. He’d known she would show up here just as surely as he’d known he would be waiting. But the change rocked him. He’d come to expect secrets from her. He’d come to expect determination. During those dark years after her father’s death she’d spun so far and dangerously out of control….
He’d tried to bring her back. Every time he’d looked at those desperate, devastated eyes, every time he’d heard the whispers, the allegations that his father had been the one to pull the trigger, that that’s why Gator Savoie vanished…it had been like a knife twisting in his gut.
But in the end, the responsibility he’d felt for Camille had led him to violate a line that should never have been touched, much less crossed.
Now he watched her walk down the long hallway of her childhood, this woman she’d become, all grown-up with a woman’s body and a woman’s smile, the slow burn of a woman’s eyes….
And the enormity of his mistake burned.
She wasn’t a stranger. The girl was still there, buried beneath countless layers of scar tissue. She was still there…and she still ached for all she’d lost.
At the second to last room she hesitated, glanced back for a long heartbeat before stepping inside. And even before he followed, even before he lifted his flashlight, he knew the walls would be pale yellow, and that he’d find her crossing the matted carpet. On the far side she stopped and lifted a hand to the mural her mother had painted. It was a garden scene, Jack remembered, and Gloria Fontenot had immortalized Camille’s kittens chasing a butterfly through daffodils.
“I’d forgotten,” she whispered, and then she turned, exposing him to the saddest smile he’d ever seen. “I’d forgotten about the flowers.”
He looked away.
“How does that happen, Jack? How do we just…forget?”
The question pierced.
The answer pierced deeper. People forgot, because they had to. People forgot, because remembering was too brutal.
“Time goes by,” he said. “Things that aren’t important just…fade.”
Something dark and jagged flickered in her eyes. “But this was important. This room, these flowers…” She went down on her knees, and before she even lifted a hand, he directed the beam of light to the daffodils. “Sugar and Spice,” she said, tracing the images of the two black-and-white
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