Chapter 9
Nine
Dawn in the House of Ruin looks exactly like dusk. That same perpetual silver twilight, unchanging and perfect and wrong.
I'm standing in what Seraph calls the training hall.
Nothing but another massive room with white marble floors polished to a mirror shine and walls lined with more of those gilt-edged mirrors.
Of course there are mirrors. Everything in this house reflects, reminding you constantly what you look like, who you are, how you measure up.
I look exhausted. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair pulled back in a messy attempt at control. The gold chains at my throat and wrists catch the light.
From Croesus, I feel worry. Distant but persistent. He hasn't appeared in the mirrors since our conversation a few days ago, but I feel him watching through our connection. Concerned. Jealous. Trying to give me space while simultaneously terrified of what that space means.
And beneath that something fainter, harder to distinguish, are the others.
All six of them. The bindings I created before I killed Raphael, pulling power from all seven angels to destroy an archangel, tying me to them in ways I didn't fully understand at the time.
Ties that seem to now be permanent, despite my desperate hopes to the contrary.
There's curiosity from one. Sharp and probing, like being examined under a microscope. That must be Idris—the angel of envy, always watching, always wanting.
Disgust from another. Cold and dismissive. Someone who doesn't want to be connected to a human, to me. Probably one of the others who sees me as a tool at best, a nuisance at worst.
Amusement from a third. Dark and unsettling, like whoever it is finds this entire situation entertaining. That scares me more than the disgust.
And from the rest: wariness. Calculation. The sense of being watched by predators deciding if I'm prey or competition.
Seven angels. Seven connections. Seven threads pulling at me constantly, making me aware that I'm never truly alone anymore.
"You're broadcasting. It’s why you sense all of us so keenly right now. You’re basically sending your weakness through the bond and what do you expect when a predator senses blood?”
I turn. Seraph has entered without a sound, dressed in loose linen pants and a sleeveless shirt. It’s actually the most casual I've ever seen him. Well, besides with his dick out. I carefully shove that thought down, down, down as deep as it goes.
Even in training clothes, he's perfect. Every line clean. Every movement measured. His platinum hair is pulled back into a French braid, and his wings are visible, folded tight against his back.
"Broadcasting what?" I ask. Absolutely ignoring the my heart trying to squeeze through my ribcage and run to safer pastures.
"Everything. Your exhaustion. Your fear. Your guilt about Croesus." He moves closer, circling me like a shark. "The bindings you share with all seven of us—you're letting every emotion bleed through them. It's loud. Messy. Undisciplined."
Through the connections, I feel the others react. The curious one (Idris?) perks up, interested. The disgusted one recoils further. The amused one's entertainment intensifies.
"I don't know how to stop it."
"I know. That's why we're here." He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You absorb sins like you're drowning. Flailing. Desperate. Taking in water with every breath."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm not finished." His silver eyes are steady. Unreadable. "You survive it through sheer stubbornness. Through will. But surviving isn't the same as thriving. I'm going to teach you to swim instead of drown."
"Poetic."
"Practical." He moves behind me, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of his presence. Of how close he is. Of the cool lily-and-ozone scent of him. "When you absorb a sin, what do you do first?"
"I... take it in. Let it flood me."
"Exactly. You let it control you instead of controlling it.
" His hand settles on my shoulder—light, impersonal, but the touch still sends electricity down my spine.
Through the binding with Croesus, I feel his immediate spike of jealousy.
"Your posture is terrible, by the way. You collapse inward when you absorb. It makes you vulnerable. Weak."
"Well, I'm trying not to die, so..."
"You're trying not to feel it. There's a difference." His other hand comes to my other shoulder, and now he's adjusting my posture. Pulling my shoulders back. Straightening my spine. "Stand like you're not afraid of what you're holding. Like you own it."
His touch is clinical. Professional. But my body doesn't care about professionalism. It responds anyway. Awareness crackling across my skin, making me hyperconscious of every point of contact.
And through the bindings, I feel everything:
Croesus's jealousy intensifying, mixing with hurt and helpless frustration.
The curious one (definitely Idris) leaning closer through the connection, fascinated by what they're sensing.
The disgusted one pulling back further, revolted by the physical contact.
The amused one practically laughing at the entire situation.
And something else. Something I've been too scared to acknowledge until now.
From Seraph, through whatever thin connection exists between us: focus. Intensity. And beneath that, buried deep, attraction. Or might be the echo of an attraction he once felt for someone who looked like me.
I shove that thought away. Can't deal with it. Won't deal with it.
"Better," he says, stepping back. "Now. Show me how you absorb a sin."
"I need a sin to absorb."
"Use mine." He moves to stand in front of me again, and his expression is challenging. Daring. "I'm pride. Constantly generating it. Pull from me. Just a thread. Nothing dangerous."
"That's not how it works. I need a contract—"
"You need a willing source. I'm both." His wings rustle slightly. "Unless you're afraid?"
The challenge in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. Croesus floods me with panic. He’s desperate don't do this, don't let him manipulate you, don't—
I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t keep having my focus split by him. I shove him away and reach.
Not with my hands. With that other sense. The one that lets me see contracts, absorb sins, break what shouldn't be breakable. I reach for Seraph's pride, and it almost surprises me when I find it. A silver thread of it, shimmering and potent and all him.
I pull.
Just a thread. Just a taste.
And pride floods me.
Not overwhelming. Not devastating. Just... there. A whisper of superiority. Of certainty. Of knowing without doubt that I'm better than everyone around me. That I deserve admiration. Worship. More.
It feels good.
That's the dangerous part. It feels too good.
"Stop."
Seraph's hand is on my wrist. When did he grab me? Then he's pulling my awareness back, breaking the connection. The pride fades, leaving me gasping.
"What did you do wrong?" he asks.
"I don't—"
"You collapsed inward again. Let it consume you instead of holding it separate." He releases my wrist, steps back. "Your posture fell apart the moment you absorbed it. Your breathing became shallow. You started to become the sin instead of just holding it."
"That's what sin eating is."
"That's what bad sin eating is." He moves behind me again, and this time his hands go to my waist. Adjusting. Correcting. "Your center of gravity shifted forward. Made you unstable. Vulnerable. If someone attacked you while you were absorbing, you'd be helpless."
This is so... weird. I’d never considered the way I moved my body when I absorbed a sin. Never thought about using anything but the magic of me to do this.
Inside me, Croesus is barely holding himself together, his jealousy and fear mixing into something painful. The curious one is enthralled. The disgusted one has retreated entirely. The amused one is definitely laughing.
And from Seraph—still professional, still focused, but underneath: awareness. Of me. Of how close we are. Of the fact that his hands are on my waist, fingers pressing lightly against my ribs.
He feels it too.
That makes everything worse.
"Again," he says, stepping back. "Pull from me. But this time, maintain your posture. Keep your breathing steady. Hold the sin separate from yourself instead of letting it merge."
"That sounds impossible."
"It's difficult. Not impossible." His eyes are hard. Demanding. "You're stronger than you think. You just haven't been trained properly."
The implicit criticism of my grandmother makes anger flash through me. "She taught me everything she knew."
"She taught you to survive. I'm teaching you to excel." He crosses his arms. "Now. Again."
I want to refuse. Want to tell him to go to hell. Want to walk out and find Croesus and let him tell me it's okay to be messy and undisciplined and human.
But Croesus isn't here.
And I'm tired of just surviving.
So I straighten my spine. Set my shoulders. Plant my feet. And I reach for Seraph's pride again.
This time, when it floods me, I try to hold myself separate from it. Try to maintain that distance between me and the sin. Between Raven and the borrowed arrogance.
It's like trying to hold water without letting it touch your skin. Impossible. The pride seeps in anyway, making me feel powerful, superior, better—
"Breathe," Seraph says sharply. "You're holding your breath."
I inhale. The pride surges harder with the breath, but my posture holds. Barely.
"Better. Now hold it for a count of ten."
Ten seconds with someone else's pride filling my head, making me believe I'm invincible. Making me forget how very breakable I am.
One. Two. Three.
The bonds carry Croesus’ anguish. He's feeling this. Feeling me filled with another angel's sin. Feeling the way my body responds to Seraph's corrections, his proximity, his touch.
Four. Five. Six.