46. Petra
PETRA
A loud noise downstairs draws my attention.
I open the door and peer over the banister just in time to see a flurry of movement in the entryway: footmen coming and going, carrying boxes into the house.
With a small spike of apprehension, I make my way down, only to see that Leah—my brother’s fiancé—has arrived with her ever-present chaperone, some distant aunt of no clear relation.
My brother is in the midst of issuing commands to the staff, his scarred hand tucked behind his back as if to hide the evidence of his recent injury.
The wound had kept him bedridden for a full week, the physician checking in daily to stave off infection. But that hadn’t swayed my father or him from continuing with plans for the engagement party at the end of the month.
As I step into the drawing room, I offer Leah a quiet greeting. “Hello,” I say, and she looks up with a small, tremulous smile.
“Hi, Petra,” she whispers.
Though we’ve only seen each other a few times since that first awkward dinner, there’s been a silent understanding between us. I can tell she wants to speak more, that she has something to say—if only she could get out from under the scrutiny of her ever-watchful guardian.
Every time Leah opens her mouth, the aunt’s sharp glance shuts her down.
We sit for tea while my brother continues barking orders. Apparently, the footmen have been sent by Mr. Snowden with goods and preparations for the party.
My mother appears a moment later with a lemon cake, her specialty, and offers it around. The aunt eagerly snatches a piece and begins shoveling it into her mouth with unseemly gusto.
Leah, however, hesitates. She stares at the cake with something akin to longing, but her hands remain folded.
“You should have some,” I say gently, taking a bite myself to show her it’s all right.
“Maybe just a little,” she murmurs. She barely finishes two bites before she stiffens in her seat and quietly asks where the restroom is. I point her toward the back hallway and watch her rush from the room, troubled.
“Is she all right?” I ask her aunt.
The older woman snorts. “She’s just being fussy. Probably expected something more to her liking—what she’s used to. A little spoiled, that one.” Her tone is clipped and sharp, clearly meant to remind me of our lower status compared to the Snowdens.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Already, I dread the prolonged company of this woman. I wait until Leah returns, making sure she looks all right before I excuse myself and prepare to flee upstairs.
But before I can escape, my mother intercepts me with a box in her arms.
“A new dress,” she says, handing it over. “For the party.”
“I have one already,” I murmur.
“You will wear this one,” she replies with finality. And just like that, the conversation is over.
Back in my room, I don’t even look at the dress. I simply toss the box into the closet and change into my nightclothes. It’s barely past noon, and yet I’m exhausted—tired of this house, of this family, of the Snowdens and their constant presence.
Every day now, someone from that house stops by, often Mr. Snowden himself, to meet with my father. I try to stay out of their way, but I’m not always so lucky. And with the engagement party looming ever closer, there are more dinners, more events, more obligations.
It’s suffocating.
There is only one escape I can rely on.
I slip into bed, pull the blanket up to my chin, and close my eyes, desperate for sleep. And as I begin to drift off, my thoughts latch onto the one person who has come to mean something else entirely.
Sin.
I want to go back to that dreamworld. Back to him. Because if there’s no place for joy in the waking world, perhaps I can find it in the world I’ve come to crave—the one where he waits for me.
A masculine scent wraps around me, grounding me in the place I know I belong. I turn my head slightly, and our eyes meet. He presses a soft kiss to my brow, arms tightening around my body like he’s afraid to let go.
Oh, how I wish I could stay here forever, curled against him, untouched by the world beyond this dream.
“I wish I never had to wake up again,” I whisper. “That I could stay like this with you for all eternity.”
“You really mean that?” he asks, his voice laced with something between disbelief and hope.
“I do,” I say, nuzzling into his chest. “You, books, painting . . . what else could I possibly want from life?”
“Then say the word,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my hair. “Say the word, Petra, and I’ll make it happen. I’ll give you that life. Because you deserve it. You deserve nothing less than everything.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so,” I reply with a sigh. “Things have been getting more chaotic at home. And I don’t know what the future holds.”
He pulls back just enough to see my face, his brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”
“My brother’s engagement. This new connection with the Snowden family. It makes me uneasy.” I pause, unsure how to articulate the dread coiling in my chest. “I can’t say for sure why, but there’s something about Mr. Snowden that I just don’t trust.”
“You should stay away from him,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Snowden is not a good man.”
“You know him?” I blink, startled.
“Unfortunately,” he says, jaw tightening.
“How? Besides the fact that he’s practically waging war against you and your mentor.”
“That’s not how I know him,” he says, voice growing heavier. “It goes back further. Long before the rumors, before the attacks on the university.”
He pauses.
“You might be surprised to learn this, but he was once one of my mentor’s closest friends.”
I sit up slightly, my heart pounding. “He what?”
He only nods, his expression darkening. “He is the one who sponsored my mentor to come to Radcliffe because of his connections within the occult world.”
“W-what? You mean Snowden was involved in this occult thing, too?”
“Rutherford, Snowden, and a couple others poured a king’s ransom into St. Anselm Hall to establish the Theology Department. But only Rutherford’s name was made public. The others remained anonymous.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because these are powerful men, Petra, men who’ve held power all their lives. They are used to getting anything they want. Anything money can buy. But eventually, they realized there were things even their immense wealth couldn’t grant them. So they turned to other means.”
“Like what?” Dread pools low in my stomach as I ponder his words.
“Take Rutherford, for example. He came from a long line of industrialists. His family’s among the most powerful in the world, with wealth beyond measure. He grew up with every comfort imaginable. And yet, there was one thing he couldn’t buy.”
“What?”
“Love,” he says simply. “He became obsessed with a woman who wouldn’t even look at him. She was married. So, at first, he had the husband taken care of—not by himself, of course, as he wouldn’t get his hands dirty. He hired someone to kill him. Easy enough for a man like him.”
I swallow. “That’s awful.”
He nods. “But killing the husband didn’t win her affection. She still wouldn’t look his way. That drove him mad. So he came to my mentor, hoping for a different kind of solution.”
“A love potion?” I ask with a dry laugh.
“Not exactly,” he said. “He didn’t want just affection—he wanted obsession. He wanted her to love him with the same maddening desperation he felt for her. And so, yes, in a manner of speaking, he was asking for a love potion.”
I wet my lips apprehensively, wondering if perhaps what I’m feeling might also be a result of magic. “Did he sell his soul for it?
“In a manner of speaking.”
Again, these vague terms. There’s never any certainty with Sin, is there? Although he’s started sharing more with me, he still keeps the core information hidden. To what end, I don’t know.
“What does that even mean?” I frown.
“He thought he did. And he got what he wanted. Or what he believed he wanted.”
His words are cryptic, and they leave me more confused than before.
“And no, Petra. I did not sell my soul to have you fall in love with me. I fear that’s all of your own making,” he says smoothly, as if reading my thoughts.
Shock flickers over my face.
“I happen to be in full possession of my soul,” he continues, smirking at me.
“I . . . didn’t ask,” I murmur and look away.
“But you thought about it,” he presses on. He tilts my jaw up so I look into his eyes as he continues. “I would never sell my soul, for anything in the world. Because it is yours and yours alone.”
I blink, my lips parting in surprise. His words should terrify me, but once more, instead of making me fear him, they only serve to make me more drawn to him.
“You alone have a claim on my soul. And I await the day when I will have a claim on yours, too,” he adds in a low voice. “But make no mistake, when that happens, it will be of your own free will. No demon deals, no love potions, nothing but your true, honest feelings.”
Heat burns in my cheeks. My heart, too, cannot seem to stand still, thundering in my chest with such velocity, it feels as though it’s about to break out of my chest and go to him.
I inhale sharply. His eyes glisten—can he read my mind? Can he guess what I’m thinking?
Before he can say more honeyed words that will undoubtedly make me confront my real feelings for him, I choose to change the subject.
“What about Mr. Snowden? What did he want?”
He stares at me intently for a second more, as if wanting to say something else. But then he sighs and allows this shift in topic.
“Something just as impossible. Something money couldn’t buy.”
“Love again?”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Something similar. He wanted his mistress.”
My eyes instinctively widen at the word.
“Don’t look so shocked, my love. Men like him always have mistresses. They might marry for politics, power, or connections, but they always have someone on the side.”
“But,” I whisper, “he claimed to love his wife.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “But love didn’t stop him from keeping another woman.”
“Would you also have a mistress?”