Chapter 2
Two
The lust is a living thing inside me, coiling hot and desperate through my veins.
I try to keep my breathing steady as Seraph leads me through his own Hall of Mirrors, but every step sends another pulse of need through my body.
The client's sin, their raw, aching desire, wraps around my spine like a vice.
My skin feels too tight. Too hot. Like I'm burning from the inside out and the only relief would be to shed every layer between me and the air.
"This way," Seraph says, his voice cool and collected. Like he doesn't notice I'm barely holding it together.
Except he definitely notices. His silver eyes flick to me every few steps, assessing. Cataloging my discomfort with clinical precision.
Bastard.
The House of Ruin is all white marble and impossible perfection. Not the warm cream of natural stone, but pure, bleached white that seems to glow with its own internal light.
Everything gleams. Everything reflects. Everywhere I look, there's another surface throwing my image back at me.
And in every mirrored surface, I catch glimpses of what I've become in the span of ten minutes: flushed cheeks painted with fever-bright color, dilated pupils blown so wide my eyes look black instead of their usual bourbon brown, hands trembling as I clutch my bag like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
I look like I'm about to fall apart.
More accurately: I look like I'm about to come apart.
The distinction matters, and that makes everything so much worse.
"I need to—" I start, but my voice comes out breathless. Wrong. Husky in a way that makes my stomach clench with embarrassment. "I need to purge this. The ritual—"
"You'll hold it," Seraph says without breaking stride. His footsteps echo in the vast corridor, steady and measured. The sound of absolute control.
I stop walking. The sudden stillness makes the lust pulse harder, like my body is punishing me for the lack of motion. For not moving toward relief. "What?"
He turns, one silver eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly perfect way. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in his pristine white suit.
"You heard me, Raven. You'll hold the sin. I want to see how long you can maintain control."
The lust pulses harder, as if responding to his words.
My thighs clench involuntarily, a desperate attempt to ease the ache building between them.
A soft gasp escapes my throat before I can stop it, and the sound echoes in the empty hallway.
Multiplies. A dozen reflections of my weakness bouncing back at me from every gleaming surface.
Seraph's eyes gleam with something that might be satisfaction.
Or hunger.
It's hard to tell the difference.
"That's not how this works," I manage, my nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. The small pain helps. Barely. "I need to purge it. That's what sin eaters do—"
"What sin eaters do," he interrupts smoothly, taking a single step closer, "is what I permit them to do.
My house, my rules." He gestures down the corridor with one elegant hand.
The movement is graceful. Deliberate. Everything Seraph does is deliberate.
"Now come. I'll show you to your accommodations. "
"I can't—" The words catch as another wave hits me.
This one stronger than the last, building exponentially like a fever that won't break.
Heat floods my face, my neck, lower. My breasts feel heavy and aching.
The seam of my jeans is suddenly intolerable.
"Please. You don't understand what this feels like. "
"Don't I?" His smile is sharp as broken glass, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure. "Consider it your first lesson in discipline, little sin eater. Control is the only true perfection."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning I don't have the bandwidth to unpack right now. Theme stated like a challenge. Like a promise.
He turns and continues walking, his footsteps resuming that steady, unhurried rhythm. Clearly expecting me to follow.
For a moment, I just stand there, shaking. I feel Croesus's absence like a missing tooth, the wrongness of something that belongs there but isn't.
He wanted to stay. Wanted to protect me.
Seraph didn't care.
Now it's just me. And Seraph. And this unbearable need clawing through my body like it has the right to consume me whole.
I force my feet to move.
Each step is its own small hell. The movement makes everything worse, creates friction where there shouldn't be any, sends jolts of sensation through nerve endings that are already screaming.
My inner thighs brush together. My clothing clings with every movement.
Even the short strands of my hair feel obscene against my flushed skin.
Seraph leads me deeper into the house, up a spiraling staircase that seems to go on forever.
The stairs are white marble too, veined with silver that catches the light from crystal chandeliers overhead.
Each chandelier holds dozens of candles—real ones, I realize with some distant part of my brain that's still capable of observation—with flames that burn without flickering. Steady. Controlled. Perfect.
Of course they are.
The bannister is cool beneath my palm as I grip it for support, hauling myself up each step. My legs feel weak. Shaky. Like the muscles have forgotten their purpose.
"Almost there," Seraph says from ahead, and I hate that I can't tell if he's mocking me. His tone gives nothing away. Just that same smooth, cultured voice that probably sounds identical whether he's ordering tea or ordering an execution.
Every step is agony. The lust has teeth now, clawing at my insides, demanding release. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop my bag twice. The second time, it actually slips from my fingers and I have to lunge to catch it, the sudden movement sending a wave of dizziness through my skull.
Or maybe that's the sin. Hard to tell where I end and it begins anymore.
Finally, finally, we reach a set of ornate double doors.
They're carved with intricate patterns that might be flowers or might be flames; my vision is too blurred to tell.
Silver handles gleam against the white wood.
Everything matches. Everything coordinates.
It's like stepping into a magazine spread about what heaven thinks perfection should look like.
Seraph pushes the doors open to reveal a massive chamber that makes me forget to breathe for a second.
All white and silver and mirror-bright. A four-poster bed dominates the center of the room, easily large enough to fit six people comfortably.
The posts are carved from what looks like alabaster, spiraling up toward a canopy of sheer silver silk that catches the light and throws it back in soft, diffused waves.
The sheets look like silk, in a particular shade of white that's almost blue in certain lights.
Pristine. Untouched. Like no one has ever slept in them.
Maybe no one has. Croesus didn’t sleep, I doubt Seraph needs to either.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, overlooking a garden that shouldn't exist in this too-perfect hell.
Through the glass, I see perfectly manicured hedges in geometric patterns, white roses in full bloom, a fountain with water that catches the eternal twilight and turns it silver.
Everything ordered. Everything controlled. Nothing wild or chaotic or real.
The room itself is enormous, bigger than my entire apartment back in the mortal realm.
Crystal sconces line the walls, their candlelight reflecting off more mirrors strategically placed to make the space feel even larger.
A seating area in one corner with chairs upholstered in white velvet.
A vanity with a mirror framed in silver.
A door that probably leads to a bathroom I don't want to imagine.
Everything pristine and perfect, and so obviously his; it screams ‘don’t fucking touch’.
"Wait." I hover in the doorway, my brain struggling to process through the haze of desire that's making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything except the pulse of need between my thighs. "This is... these are your chambers."
"Very observant. You do recall I said you’ll be staying with me."
The sarcasm is light. Barely there. But it still makes me want to punch him.
"I should have my own room."
Seraph moves to a crystal decanter on a side table near the seating area, pouring himself what looks like whiskey.
The liquid is amber in the candlelight, catching and holding the glow.
His movements are economical. Practiced.
He doesn't spill a single drop. "This is your room. For the duration of your stay."
The lust surges. I grab the doorframe to steady myself, my fingers pressing into carved marble. "You're saying I don't get private quarters?"
"You're saying you need them?" He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. His silver eyes are steady. Unblinking. Like he can see straight through me to all the desperate, needy things I'm trying to hide. It’s all a challenge. Everything with him is a fucking challenge and I need to start remembering that fact if I’m going to survive him.
"That's not—this isn't about—" I can't finish the sentence. Can't think straight. The sin is everywhere now, flooding every nerve ending with desperate, aching want. It's in my fingertips. My toes. The base of my spine. Everywhere.
I need to touch something. Someone. Anything.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms again. The pain helps for approximately two seconds before the lust swallows it whole and demands more.