14
“Some say the circumstances of the Prophet’s rise to power are curiously reflective of humanity’s origin story.
One man aligned with light, the other with darkness.
One man who aims to deliver us from evil, the other who aims to sow it.
And, of course, there is the ever-prevailing conclusion: Light drives out darkness, good triumphs over evil. ”
Despite my body feeling heavy with exhaustion, I don’t go directly to bed.
Since the door to my room doesn’t lock—not that I’m under any impressions that would keep the Warden out regardless—there’s no way I’m doing something as vulnerable as sleeping without a measure of protection.
It takes a considerable amount of effort to maneuver the mahogany wardrobe in front of the door, and I pause every few seconds to strain my ears in the quiet, waiting for some indication that the Warden has heard.
But there’s nothing—not even the creak of wood or the click of door hinges. The silence borders on disconcerting. Where is his room? Is he asleep? It’s difficult to imagine he ever relaxes, let alone gives into unconsciousness.
Eventually I slide a knife under one of the pillows, make sure my gun is still accessible, then collapse onto the bed.
I know sleep will be evasive. I’m never this conflicted.
Not even when it comes to Gabriel. I detest the Warden, and any interest I have in him feels borne of violence.
Yet in the dark, with his arm around my neck, I had wanted his body almost as much as I wanted to see him bleed.
His earlier words churn in my mind: This is not a partnership.
There is no trust, no understanding. I should know better.
An alliance with someone like him—even a false one—always results in a power imbalance.
Like Gabriel, he’s accustomed to having control.
The brothers may detest each other, but they are more similar than either of them care to realize.
Gabriel’s words echo in my mind on a loop: He said he missed having me at his side—not that he missed me. Like the Warden, I think he secretly enjoys the challenge I pose.
When sleep eventually finds me, it’s the kind that doesn’t feel restful.
I wake every hour, tossing and turning, By the time light filters in through the partially shrouded windows, I’m somewhere between conscious and not, trying to ignore the incessant tapping against the inside of my skull.
The tapping grows louder, and I feel a twinge of annoyance as I pull one of the pillows over my head.
Suddenly the rhythm gives way to a bang.
Everything seems to happen at once. The door explodes inward, coming clean off the hinges and shattering the mirror on the wall adjacent.
The wardrobe teeters, then slams to the floor with another deafening thud.
I scramble for my knife before I’m even fully awake, hurling it across the room with deadly precision.
Then I freeze. The Warden stands in the doorway, plucking the blade from his chest with an expression of utter disdain. “Son of a bitch,” he snaps. “Are you making it your personal mission to ruin all of my clothes?”
Today he wears a gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar undone.
I remain frozen, every muscle tensed as he casts his gaze around the bedroom, taking in the carnage.
Understanding flickers across his features.
He begins a slow approach to where I sit on the bed, my hair wild and my head spinning.
“Your clothes are nothing special,” I shoot back. The very sight of him has heat rushing to my cheeks, and I bare my teeth, shoving the unwarranted embarrassment aside.
The Warden stops before me, brandishing the knife slick with his own blood. I force myself to remain still. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done so already. I mentally repeat this like some kind of mantra, though it’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe.
Between one second and the next he yanks me close to him, fingers tangling in my collar.
I let out a frustrated growl as my head snaps back.
My face is tilted up to his expressionless one.
This is it—he’s finally had enough. Does he know about the call I made to Gabriel?
I try to kick out at him, but the angle is an awkward one, and my focus is on the blade as he brings it closer.
I strain to pull away from the serrated metal edge.
But the Warden merely wipes the knife on the front of my shirt, then offers it to me hilt-first. “For someone who apparently finds me so terrifying, you might remember that only one of us has inflicted any real damage on the other.”
Relief courses through me. I snatch the blade back, scowling down at the sight of his blood on my clothes. I hate knowing how easily he could kill me. Hate every pinprick of fear I’ve felt in his presence. “I don’t find you terrifying.”
He turns, gaze fixing very pointedly on the broken furniture. “Do you make it a habit, then, of using wardrobes to block your bedroom door?”
“It didn’t lock.”
“So that was your solution?”
I cross my arms, the motion made awkward thanks to the knife. “I’m not about to sleep here with no safeguards. You’ve made it very clear that killing me isn’t off the table.”
The Warden’s dark brows draw together. They’re a stark contrast to his hair, which looks a bit damp, the strands more gold than white.
“You have information I need, and I imagine I’ll have a difficult time getting it if you’re no longer alive.
So I’d thank you to not throw knives at me in my own home. ”
“If you don’t want knives thrown at you, maybe you should try knocking before you blast the door in.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek. “I did knock. Several hundred times, I’d wager.”
Now that he says it, I do recall a tapping noise prior to the chaos ensuing. “This wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t decided to keep me prisoner.”
“If you’re looking to win my trust, you’re doing an astoundingly terrible job of it.” The Warden puts a tattooed hand to his chest, prodding with a frown at the place where I stabbed him. “Consider yourself lucky you don’t heal as quickly as me, or I might not be so careful with you.”
“How do you heal so fast?”
He offers a bitter smile. “I just do.”
“Because you’re a diabolist?”
“So it would appear.”
“Were you always this way?” I demand. Despite seeing proof of his power right before my eyes, skepticism pulses through me, as if maybe there’s a logical explanation for all of this. “How did you find out you were practically indestructible?”
The Warden’s reaction is instantaneous. A wall slams down between us as his features ice over and a tendon strains at his neck, making the inked winged creature there shift.
“How did I find out?” he echoes softly. “It’s very simple, little sinner: I didn’t die when I should have.”
His reply hangs in the air between us. Were things different, I might have told him that I understand. That I too hadn’t died when I should have, and know how it shadows every moment of your life that follows.
“When was that?” I ask, refusing to be cowed.
He crouches so that we’re at eye level, gaze flicking over my features as if cataloging them.
I have the sense he’s about to impart something profound, and I hold my breath as he draws a thumb across my lower lip.
His touch is delicate. I can’t help but recall the way he touched me last night, those skilled fingers gently torturous. “Talin,” is all he says.
“Yes?” I murmur the word against his thumb, repressing the urge to bite it. Hard.
“Don’t you dare ask me questions like that.”
The harshness of his voice is so sudden, so disarming, that I lift a hand to smack his away. But I meet only air—he’s straightened and drawn back, creating space between us where there wasn’t any prior. I scowl. “Fuck you.”
He clicks his tongue. “Maybe keep your fantasies to yourself.”
“My fantasies have already come true.” I smile sweetly, turning the blade over in my hands. “I got to put a knife in your chest.”
“Is that what you were thinking about while I had my fingers inside you?”
“It was, actually.”
He tugs at his ruined shirt, mouth curving cruelly. “Your body didn’t seem to be on the same page.”
I rise with a snort, cognizant of the fact that I’m still wearing yesterday’s rumpled—and disgusting—clothes.
The last thing I’d wanted was for the Warden to accost me this morning when I didn’t have trousers on.
I mirror the cocky tilt of his head, feigning consideration, remembering what Gabriel said about his brother enjoying a challenge.
“Big words from a man who can barely control his dick around me. Or did you have something in your pocket last night?”
His eyes glitter, but he says nothing.
I go on, casually resheathing my knife. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?
Of the two of us, only one has the ability to make people attracted to them.
I’m not denying that it works”—I hold up my hands, my smile insipid—“and I wouldn’t have let you touch me if I wasn’t okay with it.
But it also means only one of us feels anything real. ”
He watches me for a long moment, something dangerous flaring behind his gaze. A hint of apprehension infiltrates my triumph.
Then, so quickly that I miss the shift altogether, he’s his impish, charming self again. “Put my room back together and get yourself cleaned up. I only came here to tell you that I made breakfast.”
“You made breakfast?” I don’t know what shocks me more—the fact that he cares whether I ate, or that he apparently prepared the food himself. “How?”