Page 27 of Deadly Sins

17Grant

ITHREW A STEAK IN the pan, the scent of grease wafting through my apartment. My ex-girlfriend Mia refused to eat meat, fucking hippie. A vegan, she’d freak when I sautéed her veggies in butter.

Last night, I’d been so angry that there was even the possibility that Mia thought she could trick me. But I channeled my energy. I had a plan to test Ksenya, the girl asleep in my bed. Try to figure out if she was really Mia in disguise.

My fingers tingled—this would be fun. Epic, even. If my hunch was correct, I couldn’t wait for the chance to see how far Mia was willing to go to try to fool me. Did she really think I wouldn’t figure out who she was?

The first order of business was to get Ksenya to quit working at Panthers and find a job somewhere I could keep an eye on her, make sure she was safe.

I didn’t care that we were broken up; if there was even the slightest chance this girl was Mia, I didn’t want a bunch of jackasses watching her strip. She had lost her virginity to me, for fuck’s sake. I mean, she’d even told me when I last saw her at my place that I still was the only man she’d ever slept with. Joaquín would really kill someone if he knew his sister was moonlighting as a stripper. Hell, I would too. I had to put an end to this bullshit—today.

Before Joaquín was arrested, he made me promise I would look out for his sister. I gave him my word, with every intention to honor it. But when Mia came to me after the arrest, begging for help, I immediately broke my vow. Still too consumed by my anger, by my rage toward her betrayal, I wanted nothing to do with her. How could she have left me when I needed her most?

I was such a stubborn jackass. Maybe if I had listened to her, helped her—fuck it, helped Joaquín—instead of hiding behind my pride, things would be different. Maybe Mia and I could’ve worked together to exonerate Joaquín, find out who really killed Tiffany. Maybe Mia could’ve finally told me the truth about why she’d really left me, and maybe we could’ve started fresh.

The time for second chances had passed, though. It was clearly way too late.

I was keeping my own secrets from Mia, too. Secrets about how far I’d fallen without her. How I couldn’t live without her. How, no matter how much success I had in the Teams, it meant nothing without her by my side.

I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the last time she had been mine, truly mine. She’d kept a vigil at my bedside, night after night. She’d dressed my wounds, given me my meds, even read to me. She had seen me at my worst, at my weakest. I’d let down my guard, allowed her to take care of me, the way she’d always wanted to.

After I could take care of myself, finally independent of the machines that were keeping me alive, when I actually felt like a man again, we’d made love one last time. And it had been different than any other time we’d had sex before. Our bodies melted into one, our kisses were passionate, our lovemaking completely connected.

I’d made a decision that night—that I didn’t want to live one more day of my life without her by my side. I’d even asked Joaquín for permission to marry her, had him go to the jeweler, and pick up the engagement ring I’d purchased for her online.

But then, Mia had left me. She visited me one last time in the hospital, gave me some pathetic excuse about how she wanted to study acting in San Francisco and needed her space.

Here I was, two years later, conflicted about the identity of this empty woman I’d allowed in my home. My heart questioned if she was my girl, my head convinced that the only woman I’d ever loved could not possibly be crazy enough to transform her body. For my hypothesis to be correct, Mia would’ve destroyed her life to save her brother’s—and used me in the process.

I’d rather believe that I was being irrational.

I headed into my bedroom and bent over the bed, watched the rise and fall of Ksenya’s chest, swollen with implants, as my mind made a mental checklist of their similarities. Ksenya smelled like citrus, she bit her lip when nervous, her smile curled on the left side. Though a different color, Ksenya and Mia both had the same almond-shaped eyes, and I could clearly see the outline of Ksenya’s contacts.

Ksenya had to be Mia. Had to be. Why else would Hero react to her presence the way he had? Why did I hunger to inhale her intoxicating scent? Why did my body crave her touch? When she touched me, my pulse quickened, my heart raced. I almost felt at peace.

I wasn’t a hundred percent sure yet; there were just as many differences between these two women as there were similarities. I met Ksenya at a strip club where she was writhing against a pole, spreading her legs for everyone to see. Mia was modest—she never even wore bikinis at the beach.

Man, it couldn’t be her.

I was still at war with myself. Were the parallels really there, or were they just what I wanted to see? As a SEAL, we never conducted any operations without the intelligence to back up our actions. And fuck this chick, whoever she was, for making me doubt my abilities. Yes, they had similar features. They smelled exactly the same. Their skin felt identical when I ran my fingers over it.

This was pretty fucking crazy. Was my Mia capable of such an insane plan? Undergo fucking plastic surgery? Mia, who used to pale at the sight of blood, cringed when we would watch gory movies. And why?

No question she did love Joaquín. They’d both do anything for each other. Anything. Maybe Mia was just as determined as her brother.

There’s a saying in BUD/S training—The pain of failure MUST be greater than the pain of succeeding, otherwise, you’re destined to be defeated by your goal. And I was certain that, for Mia, the pain of losing Joaquín would be worse than enduring any life without him.

But I still wasn’t ready to accept my suspicions as truth just yet.

I was sure of this—if this stripper was Mia, my Mia, I’d never forgive her. First, for abandoning me when I needed her most; second, for destroying her beautiful body with plastic surgery; and finally, for this deception. There would be no room for her excuses when we arrived at the end of this road—wherever it was about to lead us.

I would understand why she did it. Hell, I’d even admire her for it, even though I would still want nothing to do with her.

I had shut her out. She’d literally given up her life and identity to save her brother’s because no one else would help him.

Not even me.

But if this girl was really a Ukrainian immigrant, desperate for a new life in America, the country I risked my life to defend, then I was a completely delusional asshole. And I needed to spend some serious time confessing my sins on a sofa to a shrink.

Nah, fuck that. I was always right.

I felt it in my bones. My instincts had never deceived me. I needed to draw her out—fool her into admitting the truth. Just as she was beginning to trust me.

I felt my muscles tighten in anticipation like they did out in the field before an operation. This might even be a little fun.

Let the games begin.