45. Petra
PETRA
I open my eyes and see nothing but darkness around me, thick and suffocating.
Panic flutters in my chest as I grope blindly around, my hands meeting rough, dry stone. I’m somewhere—but where? I have no idea.
The air smells old, like dust and time, and with no light to guide me, I must rely on scent and touch alone.
I continue to move, inching forward through the void, hands pressed to the walls in search of an exit. The longer I remain in this darkness, the more certain I become that I’ve been trapped, sealed inside some hellish pocket of existence meant to rot me away forever.
But just as I begin to lose hope, I spot it: a faint glimmer of light. Instinct takes over, and I rush toward it.
To my relief, I stumble into a well-lit corridor shaped like a tunnel. Its smooth structure immediately reminds me of the underground passages beneath St. Anselm Hall, though there are differences. Most noticeably, this place is lit by electricity, not candles.
How is that possible?
I glance around. The lighting is soft, even elegant, casting no shadows. Along the corridor are several closed doors, lined up like choices in a dream.
My heart sinks.
Am I trapped in some surreal maze? A nightmare without end?
I step forward and position myself in the center of the hallway, turning in place to study the doors. Letting my intuition guide me, I choose the one on the far right and open it. It leads to another door, and another after that.
I push each open cautiously, expecting endless repetition—more doors, more uncertainty.
But the third door surprises me.
I step inside what looks like the foyer of a lavish underground apartment.
My eyes widen.
The space is expansive, with elegant drawing room furniture arranged tastefully in the center, and tall bookshelves built into the walls.
It’s breathtaking . . . and unsettling.
How could something like this exist beneath the earth?
“Ah. There you are.” The voice cuts through my thoughts, making me start. I turn quickly—and there he is.
Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
Sin.
“I was worried for a moment,” he says.
“Worried?” I ask, my voice low.
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t find your way back.”
I frown. What is he talking about?
In a few strides, he’s in front of me, reaching for my hand.
“Where are we?” I whisper. “What is this place?”
“You like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I admit. “But I don’t understand. Where are we?”
“This is my home,” he says with a gentle smile. “Welcome.”
His home?
“I have a surprise for you,” he adds, lacing his fingers with mine and leading me across the room. We approach a section of the wall that appears solid until he opens a hidden door nestled between the shelves. I gasp.
Inside is a room filled with art supplies.
Canvases. Brushes. Jars of paint. Pencils, charcoal, pastels—everything arranged with obsessive care. A chair sits in the center in front of a blank canvas, waiting.
“What is this?” I breathe.
“You mentioned once that you loved to draw,” he says, eyes lighting up. “And I know you can’t do it at home. So I made this for you. A space that’s yours. A place to make you happy.”
He looks proud, almost giddy with anticipation. My eyes shift from the room to his face, and something inside me shifts, too.
A tremor passes through my stomach, and my heart begins to beat faster—but this time, not out of fear. It’s something else entirely. Something only he can make me feel.
“I . . . don’t think I ever told you about that,” I whisper.
No. I know I never did. It was too private, too sacred. Drawing was mine. Something I did in secret, with joy and reverence. I never even dared speak of it aloud, the way I never dared speak of reading books.
Too intimate. Too forbidden.
Which means . . . this must be a dream, right?
It has to be. Another dream conjured by my subconscious, where he knows things I’ve never said aloud.
Because that’s what dreams do. They give us what we secretly want.
A part of me knows that if Sin had actually done this for me in real life, I’d be terrified. Cautious.
He is a terrifying man—intense, powerful, otherworldly. Forbidden.
And yet . . .
Despite everything, the lies, the half-truths, the shadows that cling to him, this dream is telling me the truth I don’t want to admit: I still want him.
Even knowing the danger. Even knowing he’s hiding things. I still want him.
“How long have you been living here?” I ask, still stunned by the room around us.
“A few years,” he answers vaguely, offering a small shrug.
“But it’s underground,” I say, trying to make sense of it. “You actually live down here?”
He chuckles. “These tunnels were here long before me. I just happened to stumble upon them and decided to make them my own. A place where no one could disturb me. And since St. Anselm Hall runs on electricity, I managed to connect it here as well. I’ve had time—and privacy.”
I nod slowly, but another question nags at me. “What about the other room you showed me, the small one, with the single bed and study? That one was in a different part of the tunnels, wasn’t it?”
“You’re right,” he says. “There are many who know about those outer tunnels and have access to them. That room is . . . a decoy of sorts. Something simple, to keep up appearances. But this part?” He gestures around us.
“This part is hidden. Only I know how to get here. Well, now you do, too. But I trust you with my life. After all, you’re the one who saved it, remember? ”
I don’t respond to that. Instead, I let my gaze wander across the room, taking in the furniture, the polished wood, the soft lighting, the books and art—everything so intentional, so thoughtful.
“When did you even have the time to furnish all of this? And how did you get it down here?” I wonder in awe.
He offers a half-smile. “Let’s just say I’ve had nothing but time. And this . . . I wanted you to like it.”
“What?” I blink, confused. “What do you mean?”
He steps closer, his voice soft. “While I was watching you, waiting for you, I noticed something. You longed for a space that was yours. A quiet, private place you could just . . . be. So, as I built this, I kept that in mind. I hoped you’d find it comforting. That you’d want to spend time here.”
My cheeks flush, and I quickly look away. “You never actually told me,” I whisper. “When did you see me for the first time?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his smile. Then he leans in, his lips brushing close to my ear.
“There’s no such thing as a first time,” he murmurs. “Not when my soul has known you forever.”
He wraps his arms around me, and for a moment, I surrender to it. Without the weight of rituals or secrets, this is the version of him I wish were real—gentle, loyal, kind.
Exactly the way I want him to be.
Ah, but what a nice dream this is. I wish this could be my reality. The warmth from his body transfers to mine, and a deep sense of comfort settles inside of me.
“Why don’t you paint something?” he suggests, leading me back into the small studio and gesturing for me to sit in the chair at the center.
I glance around, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer amount of art supplies. “I’ve only ever done sketches,” I admit hesitantly. “I’ve never used paints. Pencils were easier to hide,” I add in a quieter voice. “Paints leave traces. I never had the money—or the freedom.”
He says nothing, just walks over and places a box of pencils in my hands. “Then sketch. Start there.”
I nod, settling into the chair and clutching the pencil. “But I don’t know what I should sketch.”
“I have an idea,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Sketch me.”
Before I can respond, he crosses the room and sits on the sofa, already posing. I take a breath and touch pencil to canvas, focusing on the outline, letting my hand move with careful strokes.
But when I look up for reference, something’s off.
His tie is gone.
I blink. I’m sure he was wearing one just a moment ago.
Trying not to overthink it, I return to my sketch and add more detail. The next time I glance up, my pencil stills.
His coat is off.
“What are you doing, Sin?” I ask, my voice wavering.
He smirks. “True artists appreciate the naked form best.”
“Um . . . yes, but—” I stammer as he slips out of his waistcoat, then his shirt. Now bare-chested, he sits still, as if this is entirely normal.
My eyes widen when I see it again: that same intricate symbol carved into the skin above his heart, and within it, my initial.
It’s the same mark I saw in the other dream.
Without thinking, I pull down the neckline of my own dress to check. And there it is. The same sigil. On me.
“What is this?” I breathe, half in awe, half in fear.
“Our connection,” he says softly. “See? We both have it. It ties me to you. And you to me. We’ll always be bound—across this life and the next.”
His words send a tremor down my spine. I can’t tell if this is my mind warning me or indulging me. Am I trying to convince myself that, no matter how much I try to reject him, part of me is still his? That beyond the physical, something in him speaks directly to something in me?
I don’t want that to be true. And yet, my heart races. My hands tremble. I pretend to focus on the sketch, trying to distract myself, trying not to feel the heat crawling up my neck.
But then I look again.
He’s unbuckling his belt.
I nearly drop the pencil. “You—you shouldn’t do that! It’s not proper!”
He says nothing. Just smiles. And slowly, deliberately, steps out of his trousers.
Now he stands before me, completely naked.
“Draw me,” he commands.
Blushing furiously, I force myself to return to the canvas. My strokes are hesitant at first, but soon the rough outline of his form begins to emerge.
I try not to stare. I really do.
But it’s impossible not to be aware of him—the taut lines of his body, the strength in his limbs, the sheer, unapologetic masculinity he radiates.
And then there’s that other part of him.
That maleness that commands attention, even when I know I shouldn’t look.
But I do.
Just for a second.