Sinners Consumed (Sinners Anonymous #3) Read Online Somme Sketcher

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Sinners Anonymous Series by Somme Sketcher

Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)

My world is on fire, and I’m obsessed with the girl who lit the match.
Bloodied knuckles and a lifeless body at my feet confirm it: Penny is my demise.
My gentlemanly facade is nothing but a memory.
My sins are seeping through my shirt like ink.
I tried to leave her. Couldn’t do it.
I tried to snuff the life out of her. Couldn’t do that, either.
So we’ll slow dance in the flames until I’m nothing but ash and embers.
I’ll only rise like a phoenix when she’s gone.
The problem is, I’d never let her go.
No, she’d have to run far, far, away to escape me.
And maybe she will if I just told her the truth:
I own the Sinners Anonymous Hotline.
And I’ve listened to every call she’s ever made.


I stand behind the bar while Raphael sits in an armchair on the other side of it. His eyes are trained on a bland bit of wall behind my head, a poker chip spinning between his swollen fingers.

The lounge is too pristine for all this blood. Too bright, too quiet. I can practically hear the sins dripping off his body—some his, some not—and staining the carpet at his feet red.

I rest my sweaty palms on the bar and swallow.

“Want me to call someone? Your brother?” His lips tilt into a humorless smirk, and I remember the sight of Gabe’s bloodied, naked body and the menacing glare he shot me through the windshield. I shiver. “The other brother, I mean.”

He shakes his head once.

Well, then.

I shuffle from one slipper-clad foot to the other and stare at him for a few ticks of the grandfather clock on the mantle. I skim over his ruffled black hair and open collar. He popped off the stitches that held his gentlemanly persona together the moment we boarded the yacht—his collar pin and cufflinks. As they bounced over the swim platform, I managed to catch them before they disappeared into the Pacific. Now, as I glance down at the diamond dice cufflink next to my trembling hand, I wonder how they ever fooled anybody.

Is this what a breakdown looks like? I wouldn’t know. Despite the fact that, by the end, my mother would stand naked in front of the record player in the hallway, crying along to Whitney Houston’s most heart-wrenching ballads, or that my father would smash his head repeatedly into the bathroom mirror, their demise was slow. More of the crumble I expected, rather than a sudden crack I didn’t see coming. When I look up from the cufflink and back to Raphael, I’m startled to find he’s staring right at me. A half-lidded gaze, blackened by the type of recklessness that makes your survival instinct kick in. The type that’d make you cross the road if you saw it in the eye of a stranger, or jump back out of an Uber if it greeted you in the rearview mirror.

I turn to the liquor wall. Not because his expression scares me, but because I know it shouldn’t heat the space between my thighs. I’m sick.

I reach for the First Aid kit and a bottle of Smuggler’s Club whiskey.


My shoulders pull taut. “Since when did you start drinking vodka?”

“Since you said you wouldn’t kiss me if I drank whiskey.”

A hot tide carries dizziness to my head and warmth to my stomach. The sensation only intensifies when I turn around and find no humor in his eyes.

Stepping out from behind the bar, I cross the lounge and into his orbit, my heart beating a little faster with every step. His eyes track me, hardening when my legs come into view.

“Put some clothes on, Penelope. My men are onboard and I don’t want to kill anyone else today.” He drops back in the armchair, running a busted hand through his hair with a careless sweep. “Those fucking thighs,” he mutters at the bland bit of wall again.

Kill. So Blake’s dead. Christ, I thought maybe he just gave him a little concussion, or something. What could he have done that was so bad?

Still in shock from waking up to the sound of Blake’s body bouncing off the hood of Raphael’s car, I don’t have it in me to argue about how if a man sexualizes pajama shorts and a tank top then that’s his own fucking problem. Numb everywhere but my center, I pick up the throw slung over the arm of a sofa and wrap it around myself. I have every intention of placing the liquor and First Aid kit on the coffee table and scurrying back to the safety of the bar, but Raphael’s arm shoots out, wraps around the backs of my legs, and pulls me onto his thigh.

My pulse slows to a syrup-like rhythm, too sticky to beat properly. My vision dims at the heat of his body seeping through the blanket and soaking into my own. He’s hard and warm and danger rolls off him like a sonic wave.