Page 152 of Sinful Lord

I so desperately want to believe he has. Why else would he admit his entire plan to me like that?

Shit.

My hand sinks into my stomach. A warmth pulses beneath my skin. Strangely enough, I don’t hate the idea of having his baby, but I do hate the idea of being trapped by it.

So what the hell do I do now?

Before I can even think to answer that, an all too familiar ping turns my attention back toward the overturned laptop.

Another email has come through.

Instantly, a new wave of dread crashes over me. Any warmth and comfort that came from remembering Tytus’ monumental confession is replaced by a frozen fear.

Don’t worry about Tytus. I’ll take care of him.

What if Maksim managed to get the upper hand on my monster? What if Rian is emailing to say that I never have to worry about Tytus again?

My hand starts to tremble.

Still, I manage to stumble back to bed and reach for the laptop, led only by a dreadful curiosity.

Please, no.

I’m so filled with fear that I close my eyes while I straighten the screen and hold it up to my face.

Everything will be alright, I tell myself. He’ll be okay.

My eyes flutter open… and my brow furrows in confusion.

Because this new email isn’t from my brother.

It’s from Tytus’ sister.

Rian’s partner.

My best friend.

Rozalia.

Blinking the blurriness away, I read through her message. It’s not long. And it’s not filled with as much visceral concern as I expected. Instead, Rozalia plays it cool—as always.

Hell, it almost sounds like she’s proud of me, if not a little pissed off that I’ve been so reckless.

By the end of the email, I can almost feel a little smile coming across my lips. But that smile stops dead in its tracks when I read one of her final lines.

How is Tytus treating you?

The question plunges me back into the darkness and reminds me of the possibilities waiting outside that door.

Did Maksim capture Tytus? Are they trying to figure out what to do with him?

“No,” I croak.

Arching over the laptop, I start to furiously type a reply.

I hardly see the words as I write them, but the exact syntax doesn’t matter, only the meaning behind it.

Without stopping to breathe, I spill my guts to Roz. I tell her the truth. The good and the bad. All of it.