30. Petra #2
He locks it, then peeks through a tiny slit in the wood, making sure no one has followed. “What are you doing here, Petra?” he asks without turning around. “Why did you come?”
“To see if you were alive,” I murmur, the words coming out awkwardly, uncertain.
“Well,” he says, facing me, “you’ve seen. I’m alive.”
His voice is cold. Angry. But why would he be angry at me when he’s the one who went missing?
“Why didn’t you say anything?” My voice is suddenly stronger. “Why didn’t you come to me? After the bodies were found in the square . . . after everything?”
“It’s not safe,” he replies. “Not for me, and not for you. Please believe me—it wasn’t on purpose. If I could have reached out, I would have. But if anyone sees me, it won’t end well.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I was worried about you.”
Something in him softens at my words. His shoulders drop slightly, and I finally take a good look at him.
He’s still the most striking man I’ve ever seen, but he looks . . . worn.
There are dark circles under his eyes, and tension is etched into the lines of his face.
“Is this how you’ve been living?” I ask, glancing around the room again, my chest tightening as I imagine him closed up in here. No one should live like this. No windows. No light.
“This isn’t where I live,” he says. “But it’s one of the chambers I use when I need to stay at the university.”
“In the tunnels?” I frown. “I thought you were sleeping in your office.”
“Sometimes there. Sometimes here,” he says. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting you out before someone realizes you’re here. Before they realize what you’ve seen.”
“No.” I step in front of him. “You need to explain. What was that back there? Who were those people? What happened with the ritual? Did you go? Did you—”
I choke on the question.
“Did you kill those people?”
He presses his lips together. The silence is astounding.
“Please,” I whisper. “Tell me you didn’t participate, Sin.”
“I wasn’t there,” he promises.
I let out a harsh breath, relief flooding through me.
“You weren’t?” I ask, needing to hear it again.
“No. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t personally involved in the ritual, or whatever it was. I told you I wouldn’t be.”
“You mean . . . you kept your end of the bargain?” I whisper.
“If you’re asking whether I sold my soul, no, I did not.”
“Then what happened, Sin?” I ask, voice trembling.
He takes a deep breath.
“Come, sit down. Are you hurt?” he asks, already guiding me gently to the bed. “You must’ve fallen through the cracks; I saw the debris.”
I nod. “My back’s a little sore, but I’ll be fine. Nothing serious.”
He gives a brief nod, as if willing to drop the subject, but then his gaze sharpens.
“What’s that?” He gestures toward my hand.
I follow his line of sight and realize two things: one, I’m not wearing my gloves; and two, my palms are scraped and bruised, likely from trying to break my fall.
“Come here,” he says, brisk but gentle. “We need to clean those.”
Before I can protest, he pulls me toward the bed and sits me down. From the drawer in his desk, he retrieves the same ointment he gave me on our second meeting in the church.
He lowers himself to his knees in front of me, carefully turning my hands palm-up to assess the damage.
“It’s not too bad,” he mutters. “But I don’t want them getting infected.”
“I’ll be all right,” I say lightly. “It doesn’t really hurt. It’s nothing I’m not used to.”
His jaw tightens.
“Nothing you’re not used to?” he repeats. “Please don’t say that, Petra.”
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“No,” he cuts in softly but firmly. “You did mean it. Knowing what your life has been like is one thing, but actually hearing that from your own lips . . . It breaks something inside me.”
He pauses, eyes flickering with something deeper.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that, and for everything. For whatever pain you’ve known. Especially for the part I played in it.”
“It’s fine,” I whisper. “It’s in the past now.”
“It’s not fine. You were hurt because of me—again. My God, Petra. What were you thinking, coming here in the middle of the night, after what happened? After those murders?”
“I wanted to find you,” I say quietly. “To make sure you were alive. What else was I supposed to do?”
He sighs. “The ritual happened. The authorities were right: Some of the University’s higher-ups were involved.
They’ve fled. No one knows where they are.
My entire department is under suspicion now.
Some of the staff have vanished. The rest of us .
. . the ones with nowhere to go . . . we’re still here. ”
“What about those people I saw? That woman?” I ask, my voice lowering to a whisper. “Was that another ritual?”
He finishes rubbing the ointment into my palms, then looks up, locking eyes with me.
“No. They’re from my department, yes. But it wasn’t a ritual. That woman, she’s a prostitute. She was just doing what they paid her to do.”
“A prostitute?” I blink. “You mean they were . . .”
“Fucking, yes.”
A sharp gasp escapes me. I glance away.
“That’s crude,” I whisper.
“No. It’s part of life,” he counters with a dark chuckle.
I chew on my lip, still looking away.
“Is that . . . Have you ever done that?”
He tilts his head. “Are you asking if I’ve participated in that?”
I nod tentatively.
“No.”
Relief washes through me.
“But,” I add hesitantly, “have you ever been with a prostitute before?”
“What are you asking me, Petra?” he says, meeting my gaze squarely. “Are you asking if I’ve paid someone for sex? If I’ve fucked someone?”
I falter, trembling and full of nerves. “I think so. I-I don’t know.”
The pain in my hands has faded under the balm, but my mind is a whirlwind of uncertainty. He watches me carefully, then a slow, unreadable smile touches the corners of his lips.
“And what if I had?” he asks. “Would it change something for you?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I admit. “I suppose . . . that’s just what men do.”
“Even the men in your church?”
“They’re still men,” I say quietly, the truth bitter. “Maybe not openly, but things happen. Even in our community.”
And yet the thought of him, my Sin, with someone like the woman from before, with her full curves, her confidence, her worldliness . . . it crushes something inside me. Something tender and unsure.
He sees it. I turn my face away, blinking hard.
“Petra,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
He touches my chin and gently turns my face toward his. I meet his eyes.
“Would you care?” he asks. “If I had?”
I shake my head faintly. “I don’t have a say in what you do. Or what you’ve done before. Women are supposed to be chaste, pure, for their husbands. But no one expects the same of men. I know that. Even my brother’s been to brothels. I’ve heard him brag about it to his friends.”
“Eavesdropping again, huh?” he says gently.
“I’m good at it,” I mutter.
“You didn’t answer my question. Would you care?”
“Uhm.” I swallow. “Can we talk about something else?”
But the thought of him with another woman still echoes inside me. I can’t silence it. I picture him kissing her like he kissed me, touching her with the same hands. A sob slips out before I can stop it.
I look away, blinking repeatedly and hoping I won’t devolve into a mass of sobs, though I can tell I’m very close to doing so.
Not only have I somehow found my way to a forbidden tunnel where God knows what pagan rituals were performed, but I also witnessed something that will perhaps forever be engraved on my retina. Then to think of Sin doing that, too . . .
“Petra,” he says, reaching for me again. “Look at me.”
“Please,” I beg, eyes shut tight. “Can we talk about anything else?”
“I’ve never done it,” he swears.
I look up slowly. “What?”
“I’ve never paid for sex. I’ve never been with a prostitute.”
The tightness in my chest eases. “You haven’t?”
“I’ve never been with another woman. Ever.”
He holds my gaze.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? That’s the truth. Until you I’d never even looked at anyone else.”