30
“To sin is to commit an act against the Savior. To raise a hand against your fellows is one such act, for just as you are a product of the Savior’s love, so too are they. To purposely impart suffering upon another is to reject that love and poison one’s own blood with hate.”
I sleep for much of the afternoon, sequestered in one of the townhouse’s three large bedrooms. Given that I bathed in the dark, I still don’t know whether killing the Regiment sailor caused the Bloodrot to spread a detectable amount.
As a result, my nightmares take their own liberties.
I dream I’m standing in front of the mirror in my old apartment, only to turn on the light and see bruise-like marks covering my entire face.
The scene morphs into one in which I’m watching Gabriel kill Slade.
My entire body is frozen in place. I’m unable to move, unable to do anything but look on while Slade is bound to a pyre like some witch of old, the flames rising higher and higher around his scarred body.
Then suddenly the flames become different, familiar, and the Apostles’ temple is collapsing before me as my ears fill with screams.
I always end up back here.
When I finally wake, it’s to the sound of Ceri and Emeric arguing downstairs. My chest tightens: What if Emeric’s decided he’s not happy about Ceri kissing me after all? The idea sends an ache through me, and it’s a moment before I understand why.
I think I like these people. They’re open and unapologetic about their desires, and they don’t judge mine.
They don’t care that I’m a sinner, that I’ve killed people, and they don’t look at me like something to be fixed.
It’s an unfamiliar sensation for me, and one that I immediately mark as a weakness.
At the same time, however, a tiny part of me begins to wonder about after.
After everything, and once I’m a diabolist…
will I stay here? Could I fit into their strange dynamic somehow? Do I want to?
I think I know the answer, and it terrifies me.
I’m prepared to mediate as I make my way to the sitting room, but that proves unnecessary. Emeric and Ceri’s animated argument, I quickly learn, is about the state of Emeric’s shoes.
“Talin!” Ceri says my name as though she’s been anticipating my arrival. She crosses the room to take my arm, and I grudgingly let her pull me over to where Emeric stands in the kitchen, eating peanut butter from the jar.
It takes me a beat to realize they’re both dressed in formal attire.
Ceri is resplendent in a teal dress with a slit down one side, while Emeric has donned a charcoal suit that must have been tailored specifically for his broad frame.
I’m braced for awkwardness, but neither appears remotely bothered by what transpired earlier today.
Ceri releases my arm, thrusting a finger at Emeric’s dress shoes, which are a light brown. “Tell him, Talin. Tell him he should be wearing black shoes.”
I screw up my face. I can’t bring to mind a situation in which I’ve ever had less of an opinion. “Wear black shoes,” I tell Emeric. It sounds like a question.
Ceri makes a noise of triumph, but Emeric shakes his head. “Talin doesn’t actually care. She just doesn’t want any part of this, and I can’t blame her.”
“You two look nice,” I observe, keen to change the subject.
He beams. “Thank you. It’s for the reception.”
I barely hear him. I purse my lips, swallowing. “Listen, about what Slade said—”
“About you being in contact with Gabriel?” Ceri interrupts. “Don’t worry. Slade is distrustful, and he has every reason to be, but I don’t believe for one second that you’re on the Prophet’s side.”
“What makes you say that?”
She shrugs, exchanging a look with Emeric. “Your face whenever Gabriel’s name is mentioned. You get all tense and your mouth does this.” Ceri’s own mouth twists in an approximation of a grimace. “It’s obvious you’re afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say.
“Nobody would blame you if you were,” Emeric says, adjusting his shirt collar. “In fact, I might go so far as to say you should be. There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who knows exactly what to say and do in any situation.”
He’s right. Gabriel holds the power to destroy me, and he knows it. Luckily he’s also only human, and humans are easy to kill.
That simple fact is going to help me ensure Slade will be the one to emerge from the Prophet’s Sanctum.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Slade appears at the edge of the room, impossibly silent in his approach.
His hair is slicked back from his face, his eyes unlined.
He doesn’t wear a jacket as Emeric does, but rather a thin black dress shirt.
It’s buttoned up all the way to cover most of his neck, and he’s removed the ring from his nose.
He looks…vulnerable. Falsely, devastatingly so.
“No need to go quiet on my account,” Slade drawls, nodding at Emeric and giving Ceri a tightly sarcastic smile. “I see you two are ready.”
Ceri flutters her lashes at him as she flounces past. “We were just leaving. See you there.”
The door slams shut, and I turn to face Slade. “We’re going to the reception?”
He drags a hand through his inky hair. “If we make an appearance it’ll surely get back to Gabriel.
We want him to know we’re here, assuming he doesn’t already.
Also, the reception is at the Citadel, which is attached to the Prophet’s Sanctum.
I’d like my first visit not to be when my brother and I are fighting to the death there.
By the way,” he adds, “Ceri laid a dress out for you.”
Perfect. I’m more than keen to get a good look at the Sanctum—even if it means I have to dress up. Most dresses don’t conceal enough of the Bloodrot for my comfort.
I’m about to say as much, but I’m distracted by the way Slade’s lip curled when he mentioned Ceri. I tip my head to the side, blinking at him in wide-eyed innocence. “Still bitter she ruined your little game, are you?”
I know I’m playing with fire as he bares his teeth. “Bitter? No. But you should be.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because.” He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing his tattooed throat and the silver chain around it. “I wasn’t going to punish you and give you nothing in return, little liar. Once you’d done your time, I would have made sure it was worth it.”
I swallow. “How so?”
Slade’s mouth tilts up smugly, his gaze hardening. “I would have taken you to the shower, washed every inch of your body myself, then tied you to the bed and made you scream my name until it was the only thing that pretty mouth of yours could remember how to say.”
I don’t know what the fuck I’d expected, but that wasn’t it.
The words alone are enough to make my body react—electricity shoots from my chest down to my core.
It’s unfair, really. I hate that he has this effect on me.
But I also remember the shower I took after finally getting away from the damned fireplace, and I can’t help thinking how much better it would have felt to have his hands on me.
I’m certain Slade can see my thoughts on my face, so I’m quick to fling a retort. “In that case, I’m not sure I missed too much. Ceri is an excellent kisser.”
He doesn’t like that. I can see the strain in his neck as he wrestles for control, and part of me wishes he wouldn’t bother.
“Jealous?” I ask, goading now. “If I recall, she did say something about you not liking to share.”
“I wouldn’t say jealous is the correct word.” Slade’s eyes flash. “I simply don’t appreciate when my plans are interrupted. And I definitely don’t like someone distracting my submissive from their assigned tasks.”
That shuts me up. “Your what?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I am not yours.”
“You were in that moment, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. And frankly, it would be ridiculous of you to deny it.”
I grind my teeth. He’s right, but it’s annoying as hell when he takes that smug tone. “That still doesn’t mean I did anything wrong.”
“I suppose that depends on whether or not you were hoping to please me.”
“I don’t really give a fuck if you’re pleased with me,” I say coolly.
Slade shrugs, examining the assortment of gold and black bands on his fingers. “Lie to yourself all you want. We both know Ceri’s sweet little kiss wasn’t what you really wanted.” He steps into the kitchen, his movements lithe, his gaze challenging. “It wasn’t what you need.”
My face is frozen in a snarl. I’m all too aware of my undone hair and wrinkled shirt; he looks like a king in comparison. “What I need?”
“Yes.” He’s entirely unabashed as he circles to stand behind me, murmuring into my right ear. “You know, from the moment we first met, I suspected this might be the sort of thing you’re into.”
I set my jaw as he pulls me roughly against his chest, resting his chin in the crook of my neck. It’s a horribly possessive gesture, but my eyes roll back as his fingers splay across one side of my rib cage. “Why?” I ask between shallow breaths. “Because I’m all kinds of fucked-up?”
“No. Because it’s not uncommon for powerful women to enjoy handing over the reins, even if it’s just an act.”
It’s not what I expected him to say. “And what about you? Are you just your regular, run-of-the-mill sadist?”
“Again, no.” His hand slides up to cup my breast, and suddenly I’ve become something malleable, compliant. “I simply love to see a beautiful, confident woman relinquish control. There’s no greater honor than receiving that trust.”
“Are you telling me trust is what turns you on?”
“Among other things.” There’s amusement in his voice now. “So I’ll ask you again: Do you trust me, little sinner?”
The logical answer is no. No, of course I still don’t trust this man, if you can even call him that. But in this…it’s difficult to think of a single reason not to. A single reason that feels important, anyway.
“I trust you enough,” I say, slipping back into the version of me who knelt before the fire with a knife between her teeth.