13. Petra #2
No. I can’t regret protecting myself. This is about my safety. My survival.
Just as the light breaks through the mouth of the alley, a hand grabs me.
I gasp.
He pulls me back with terrifying swiftness. I never even heard him move.
In an instant, he pushes me against the wall, his body close—too close.
“What did I tell you, Petra?” he says, voice low and dangerous. His expression is no longer gentle. There’s something unhinged in his eyes. “You do not threaten me with withholding yourself.”
Before I can react, before I can scream or protest, his hand rips at my veil. In a single motion, it’s torn from my head and falls to the ground.
I suck in a ragged breath. My lungs feel crushed.
He sees me. And yet—he doesn’t look surprised. If anything, there’s a sick satisfaction curling at the edge of his mouth.
He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. I turn my face away, eyes shut tight.
“Leave me alone,” I whisper.
He says nothing, just leans closer. His lips brush the side of my face, traveling up to my ear. Then, teeth—light and sharp—graze my earlobe. A shiver races down my spine.
I should be afraid. I am afraid. And yet . . . there’s something eerily familiar in his touch.
“Please,” I whisper again, weaker this time. “Leave me alone.”
“Sin,” he breathes. “My name is Sin.”
He steps back. He picks up my veil from the ground and gently places it back over my face, securing it.
“Sin,” I repeat. The name tastes bitter. “That’s . . . blasphemous.”
“Yes,” he replies, his smile crooked. “It is.”
“Why would someone name you that?”
I ask the question before I can stop myself, forgetting—if only for a moment—what he’s just done.
“Perhaps that’s a lesson for another day.”
“Another quid pro quo,” I scoff. “How is it an exchange when you take what you want anyway?”
His features darken. “That’s the first lesson, Petra. You cannot say no to me.”
Laughter bursts from my lips, sharp and bitter.
“Now I understand,” I say. “This is why they call you Sin. Because you sin with every word, every deed.”
Anger floods me, burning away any remnants of confusion or affection.
I step forward instead of shrinking back. I jab my finger into his chest.
“I see now why you kept your name from me. Because it’s as ugly as you are.”
I don’t wait to see his reaction. I don’t want to.
His name might be Sin, but he will not make me sin.
Not with him. Not without him.
I end up finding my way back to Mrs. Jenkins and the girls. They accept my excuse that I got lost in the crowd—and as it turns out, I wasn’t the only one. Some of the other girls return even after me. Thankfully, no one suspects a thing.
We all make our way home, and Mrs. Jenkins decides it’s best not to mention anything about the commotion in the square to our parents. If you ask me, that’s the best decision she could have made. I don’t need to be barred from future outings over one chaotic afternoon.
At home, I go through the motions. We eat dinner together, and afterward, everyone retires to their rooms. Once I’m alone, I let out a relieved breath.
And then my mind begins to turn.
From the charming man who sent me letters and books under the veil of night, he became a monster in front of my eyes. I know his name now, but somehow, I feel further from understanding who he is than ever before.
I begin my nightly routine, performing my ablutions and preparing for bed. Out of instinct, I move to the window.
I don’t even know what I expect to find.
But there it is. A letter. No book this time, just a single envelope.
For a brief, reckless moment, I consider throwing it out the window. But someone might find it. That would be worse.
I pick it up, intending to burn it. I won’t read it, I tell myself. There’s nothing left to say.
He’s shown his true colors. He doesn’t care about what I think, not really. He’s just another man seeking control, another man pretending to care.
I walk to the fireplace, letter in hand, ready to toss it into the flames. But as I lift it, something catches my eye.
The corner is damp—sticky. Red.
“What . . .” I whisper.
Curiosity overtakes dread as I carefully peel the envelope open.
There is no letter inside.
Just a small, raw piece of flesh. Wet, bleeding. It slips from the envelope and hits the floor with a sickening thud.
I recoil, hand over my mouth. I try not to scream.
What is this? Why would he send something like this?
Gingerly, I grab the fire poker and nudge it. As I roll it over, I see ink. A message, scrawled in familiar handwriting:
Forgive me.
I gag.
Is it his flesh? Someone else’s? The thought makes my stomach churn.
He’s mad. That’s the only answer. Madder than I’d dared to believe. Sin, he called himself, and now the name makes cruel sense. He doesn’t just bear the name. He is the embodiment of it.
I grab the piece of flesh and drop it back into the envelope, ready to destroy it. But just as I hold it over the fire, something stops me.
My hand trembles.
Why can’t I let go?
I take a step back, open the envelope again, and this time hold the flesh in my hand. It fits perfectly in my palm. The message is unmistakable. The writing is his.
Forgive me.
He asks for forgiveness—with this?
Madness.
And yet . . . perhaps some of that madness has sunk into me as well. Because instead of throwing it into the fire, I carefully wipe the blood from the flesh, preserving the words.
Then, slowly, almost reverently, I slide it into the pages of my Bible and hide it away.
He is mad.
But maybe . . .
Maybe I am, too.