Chapter 6
Six
I find him in what I assume is his study.
It's a room I haven't seen before, accessed through a door I didn't notice yesterday in my sin-addled haze.
White marble, naturally. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes that look ancient and probably are.
A massive desk of pale wood, ash, or birch, positioned to face the windows overlooking an impossible garden.
Everything pristine. Everything ordered. Everything perfect.
Seraph sits behind the desk, writing something in a leather-bound journal with what looks like an actual fountain pen. His platinum hair catches the silver light. His posture is impeccable. He doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.
Like I'm not worth interrupting his work for.
The dismissal stings more than it should.
I clear my throat.
He holds up one finger, and continues writing for another thirty seconds. Each second feels like an hour. Finally, he caps the pen, and closes the journal. Only then does he look up.
His silver eyes are cool. Assessing. Showing me nothing but my own reflection.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
Not "please sit." Not "have a seat." Just a command.
I want to refuse on principle. Want to stand just to prove I can. But I'm exhausted, and my legs are still shaky from yesterday, and picking battles over where I sit seems stupid when there are so many more important things to fight about.
So I sit.
The chair is uncomfortable—it’s too straight-backed, too formal. Probably by design. Probably so visitors never get too comfortable in Seraph's presence. Never relax enough to forget who holds the power here.
He folds his hands on the desk, wings settling against his back with a soft rustle of feathers. "We need to discuss your terms of service."
"I thought we already did that. Yesterday. Before—" I stop. We're not talking about last night. We agreed. It meant nothing.
"Yesterday was... atypical." His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those mirror eyes. "Today we start properly. With clear expectations and boundaries."
"Fine." I cross my arms. "What are the terms?"
"You will serve in my house for one year, as stipulated by your grandmother's contract." He says it like he's reading from a script. Formal. Detached. "During that time, you will break contracts as I direct, absorb sins as needed, and represent the House of Ruin in any capacity I deem necessary."
"That's vague."
"Intentionally so." He leans back slightly. "I don't know what situations will arise over the course of a year. I need flexibility."
"I'm not agreeing to become an assassin or something equally horrifying."
"You won't be asked to kill anyone." A pause. "Unless they deserve it."
"Seraph—"
"That was a joke." His expression doesn't change. "A poor one, apparently. No, Raven. I won't ask you to kill. I'm not Kael. Violence isn't my preferred method of resolution."
Well, shit, that’s a comforting thought for my future.
"What is your preferred method, then?"
"Humiliation." He says it simply, like it's obvious.
"Pride's opposite isn't humility. It's shame.
Public failure. The complete destruction of someone's carefully constructed image.
" His fingers drum once against the desk.
"I collect souls by letting people destroy themselves.
They make deals for perfection, and when they inevitably fail to maintain it, I'm there to collect. "
The casual cruelty of it makes my stomach turn. "Sounds delightful."
"It's efficient." He reaches for a different journal, this one bound in white leather, and opens it to a marked page. "Now. Your living arrangements."
"I'm staying in your chambers. You made that clear yesterday."
"Yes. But we need to establish boundaries." He doesn't look at me as he says it, focusing instead on whatever's written in that journal. "You'll have the northern corner of the room for your personal belongings. One wardrobe shelf has already been cleared. Your boots should be kept by the door."
I blink. "You're giving me rules about where to put my boots?"
"I'm giving you rules about maintaining order." Now he looks up, and those mirror eyes are sharp. "This is my space. My sanctuary. I'm allowing you to occupy it, which is already an enormous concession. The least you can do is respect the structure I've established."
"Structure." I laugh, and it comes out bitter. "Is that what we're calling your obsessive need for control?"
"I prefer 'appreciation for perfection.'" His voice is cool. Unbothered. "But call it what you like. The rules remain."
"What other rules?"
He consults the journal again. Actually reading from a list he's prepared.
Because of course he has a list. "You'll wake with me.
We'll train together for two hours. Breakfast at eight.
Work begins at nine. Lunch at one. More work until six.
Dinner at seven. Evening is yours to do with as you please, provided you remain in the house. "
"You've scheduled my entire day."
"Structure breeds discipline. Discipline breeds control. Control is—"
"The only true perfection," I finish for him. "Yeah, I got the theme yesterday when you were torturing me."
Something flashes in his eyes. Anger? Or guilt. Hard to tell when all I see is my own face looking back at me.
"What happened yesterday," he says carefully, "was not torture. It was a test. One you passed, I might add, though not in the manner I expected."
"You forced me to hold a sin until I was falling apart. What would you call it?"
"Necessary." The word is clipped. Final. "Sin eaters rely too heavily on their rituals. On their comfort zones. I needed to see how you performed under pressure. Without your safety nets."
"And now you know." I lean forward, placing my palms flat on his pristine desk. "I don't crumble. I adapt. I push back. So maybe next time, you could ask instead of subjecting me to so much agony."
"Where's the fun in that?"
The casual dismissal of my suffering makes rage flash through me, hot and sharp. Through the binding, I feel Croesus stir, keeping distant but aware. Probably feeling my anger. Probably worried I'm about to do something stupid.
He's not wrong to worry.
"Is that all?" I ask through gritted teeth. "Boot placement and daily schedules? Or are there more rules you'd like to dictate?"
Seraph studies me for a long moment. Then he closes the journal and sets it aside. "One more. The most important one."
"What?"
"Sunday evenings from six to eight are yours. No work. No training. No interruptions." He says it like he's granting me a kingdom instead of two hours a week. "You may use that time to call your sister. To maintain that connection. I understand it's important to you."
The unexpected kindness catches me off guard. Makes the anger drain away, leaving only confusion in its wake. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why allow it? You could refuse. Keep me isolated. Make me completely dependent on you for everything." I narrow my eyes. "What's the catch?"
"There's no catch." He stands, moving to the window with that fluid grace that makes him look like he's floating rather than walking. "Your sister is your anchor. Your reason for being here. Taking that away would be unnecessarily cruel. And it would end up making you useless to me."
"And you're not unnecessarily cruel?"
"I'm cruel when it serves a purpose." He doesn't turn around, just stands there looking out at the garden. "Cruelty for its own sake is wasteful. Inelegant. It achieves nothing except resentment."
"So you're being kind to me because it's efficient?"
"I'm being kind to you because your grandmother asked me to."
The words drop into the room like stones into still water. Creating ripples. Disturbing the careful calm.
I stand slowly. "What did you just say?"
"Your grandmother." He turns now, and his expression is unreadable. "Meredith Vesper. She came to me three days before she died."
My heart stops. "She came here? To the House of Ruin?"
"Yes. Unannounced. Which is unusual, since most who seek entrance must be invited or fulfill certain criteria. But she walked through my doors like she owned them." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Reminded me quite a bit of you, actually."
"What did she want?"
"Protection." He moves back to his desk, but doesn't sit. Just stands there, one hand resting on the back of his chair. "She said she'd discovered something. Something dangerous. And that if anything happened to her, I needed to protect you."
The room feels smaller suddenly. Airless. "From what?"
"She wouldn't say. Claimed it was safer if I didn't know details. That knowledge would make me a target too." His jaw tightens. "I should have pressed harder. Demanded answers. But she was... persuasive. And I assumed I had time."
"But you didn't."
"No." The single word is heavy with something that might be regret. "Three days later, she was dead. Heart attack, the official report said. But there were no medical indicators. No warning signs. She was perfectly healthy one moment and gone the next."
"We already know why she was killed."
“The question is whether they'll come for you next.”
The fear that spikes through me is visceral. Immediate. Through the binding, Croesus feels it too, and his concern flares like a beacon. I push it down, forcing myself to focus. "You said you'd protect me. That's what she asked you to do."
"Yes."
"Then you're doing a terrible job." The words come out sharp and serrated. "I've been here one day and you've already—" I stop. We're not talking about last night. "You forced me into a situation where I had to—where we had to—"
"I know." He cuts me off, and I'm grateful. "And you're right. I failed. The moment I denied you the ritual, I failed in the promise I made to your grandmother."