A House of Ruin (Sins of the Fallen #2)

Chapter 1

One

Perfection, I learn within the first thirty seconds of my arrival, has platinum hair, mirror eyes, and zero patience for my bullshit.

"You're late," Seraph says. "And what the fuck are you wearing?"

The transition through the mirror leaves me disoriented.

The gray nothingness between these dimensional spaces always does, but I force myself to focus.

To take in where I am, what I'm facing. The entrance hall of the House of Ruin stretches before us, and my first thought is that it looks like Heaven threw up. Same as it did the last time I visited.

Everything is white marble. Not the warm cream of old buildings, but the cold, pristine white of something never touched by human hands.

The floor is polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the arched ceiling thirty feet above.

Columns line the hall at regular intervals, each one carved with images of angels and kings and warriors in their finest moments, all crowned, victorious, and immortalized in stone.

Silver light filters through windows showing nothing but endless white sky, no sun visible, only a sourceless illumination making everything appear too sharp, too perfect.

It's beautiful the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Sterile. Lifeless. Perfect. I thought so the last time I was here too.

Seraph stands at the far end of the hall, and I try not to look at myself in the mirrored surfaces everywhere.

Dark hair, a little messy from stress and running my hands through it.

Gold jewelry at my throat and wrists, delicate chains that might as well be a collar for how clearly they mark me as someone else's property.

I look small in this space. Small and out of place, a smudge of a bruise in all this painful light.

"Not like I can make portals, so maybe your portal was fucking late," I snap, because starting this contract by rolling over feels like a terrible precedent.

Beside me, Croesus goes rigid. His hand on my arm tightens—not painful, but firm. A warning. His anxiety spikes like a knife between my ribs. Don't antagonize him. Not yet. Not until you understand what you're dealing with.

But I'm already antagonizing him just by existing here. By being the sin eater Croesus released early. By walking into Seraph's territory wearing another angel's claim.

Seraph tilts his head, and the movement is bird-like.

Predatory. "The House of Gold might tolerate insolence, but my house will not.

" He moves toward us, and I register with the part of my brain that's catalogued every dangerous thing I've ever encountered that he moves like water.

Like a dancer. Each step perfectly placed, perfectly balanced, not a single motion wasted.

"In my house, punctuality is measured by my expectation, not your watch. "

He's tall with a lean but muscular build.

Slender, graceful, but there's real strength in those shoulders and arms. He moves like a duelist, like someone who's spent centuries perfecting the art of combat until every gesture is effortless.

His platinum blonde hair falls to his shoulders in soft waves which catch the silver light like spun glass, and I'd bet everything I own his hair is naturally that perfect.

He likely doesn't have to do anything to make it look effortless.

His skin is pale as the surrounding marble. Flawless. No scars, no marks, no signs of ever having been hurt or touched or lived in.

And his eyes. Jesus Christ, his eyes.

Silver-white, reflective as actual mirrors.

When he looks at me, I see my face looking back, my dark eyes too wide, jaw tight with tension I'm trying to hide, the gold at my throat glinting in the weird silver light.

I see every flaw, every imperfection, reflected and magnified in those eyes.

Every line around my mouth from years of holding back screams. Every shadow under my eyes from too many nights without sleep.

Every mark of being human and mortal and insufficient.

Behind him, six wings spread in a massive arc.

White-gold feathers, pristine and perfect, folded but visible.

Actually, physically visible. His are the only wings I’ve seen, does Croesus have them too and tuck them away into whatever pocket dimension angels come from?

Seraph wears his like a crown. Like a declaration.

Look at what I am, those wings say. Look at what you'll never be.

I want to look away. Want to break eye contact before this becomes a dominance thing. But I know showing any hesitation to this...creature...is defeat.

So I hold his gaze and watch myself reflected in those mirror eyes.

Croesus speaks before I can dig myself deeper. "Seraph." His voice is carefully neutral, a moderated tone he uses when negotiating with his fellow angels. Deference only tempered by his own arrogance. "Thank you for agreeing to this arrangement. Raven is—"

"Your sin eater. Yes, I'm aware." Seraph stops a few feet away, close enough I can smell him, like lilies and something else, something cold and sharp like ozone after lightning.

"The question is: can she actually do what you claim?

Oh, we've witnessed it, but can she maintain or is she going to crumple under the pressure?

Have you spent months playing with a pet who looks impressive but lacks substance? Can you survive the next six years?"

The casual dismissal in his voice makes my jaw clench.

I've broken forty-eight contracts. Killed an archangel.

Survived absorbing void and binding myself to seven fallen angels in the process.

I'm standing here with forty-eight tattoos and a network of binding marks spreading across my skin marking the bonds I took to help them, and this platinum-haired asshole is calling me a pet.

"I broke forty-eight contracts," I say flatly. "You tell me if I lack substance."

Croesus's hand on my arm tightens almost painfully. His emotion floods into me: fear and frustration and reluctant pride all tangled together. He's afraid for me. Afraid of what Seraph will do if I keep pushing. But there's also this thread of satisfaction underneath.

Something flickers in Seraph's eyes. Not quite amusement. More like interest. The kind a cat shows when it spots something small and quick-moving.

"Breaking contracts is one thing. Breaking them correctly is another." He turns, gesturing behind him with one elegant hand, and I notice for the first time we're not alone.

There's someone standing near one of the archways branching off from the main hall.

A client, clearly. I can see the thread of power connecting them to Seraph, the telltale shimmer of an active contract.

The heavy chains binding them. Middle-aged, expensive suit that screams boardrooms and power.

But they're staring at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing they've ever seen, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in front of them.

The body language of someone completely defeated.

"This is one of my clients," Seraph says, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space.

British accent, but older than modern British.

Like someone who learned English before it split into regional dialects.

"They made a contract with me six months ago.

Standard terms: I provide what they desperately wanted, they provide payment upon completion. "

I study the client more carefully. The suit is expensive but rumpled, like they've been wearing it for days. Their hair is disheveled. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Hands shaking.

"And?" I ask, though I already know where this is going.

"And they've changed their mind." Seraph's tone is light, almost amused, but I don’t trust it.

"Want out of the deal. Claims I misled them about the terms. Which I didn't, but humans do love to rewrite history when they realize the cost of their choices.

" He turns those mirror eyes back to me. "Isn't that right?"

"I didn't understand," the client says, voice hoarse like they've been screaming. Or crying. "I didn't know it would—I thought—" They stop, swallow hard. "Please. Help me. I'll do anything."

Croesus's wariness intensifies beside me, and I realize I won’t be able to do this, to serve Seraph with him at my side. I can’t lock myself down properly. His message via emotion is crystal clear, though: this is a test. Be careful. Don't let him trap you.

"So you want me to break their contract?” I say slowly, looking at Seraph rather than the broken person in the expensive suit.

"No." Seraph's smile is sharp, showing too many teeth. "I want you to show me what you can do. Right now. No preparation. No ritual. Simply you and your ability and a client who's desperate enough to beg."

The hall suddenly feels colder. The silver light seems to brighten, making my eyes water.

"Please," the client says again, and now they're looking at me, as if they only just now realized I might be able to help. Eyes red-rimmed, exhausted. "I can't—I'm losing everything. I can't stop, and I don't know how to—"

"They understood perfectly," Seraph interrupts, not unkindly.

Like he's explaining something to a child.

"They wanted something without earning it.

Power without the work. And now they're discovering that borrowed strength has a price.

" He looks back at me, and I see myself reflected in those eyes again: uncomfortable, angry, out of my depth. "So. Sin eater. Earn your keep."

I glance at Croesus. He's standing very still. A preternatural stillness I’ve noticed angels fall back on when they're trying not to react.

His jaw is tight. Gold eyes hard and bright as coins.

He doesn't like my being put on the spot, having to prove myself before I've even unpacked, watching Seraph test me like I'm some hired help applying for a job.