Page 66 of The Shadow Sanctum

Not quite right.

Try again.

Sawyer clears his throat. Because for every admirable characteristic, he possesses an equal fault—impatience and arrogance and a deep, sick lack of compassion.

Fine.

I walk tall to the mirror and step in front with dead eyes, like that will somehow prove something.

At first, I see nothing. Images playing through my mind, a glimpse of smooth glass. My heart beats so fast that I’m content to concentrate on its rhythm, but when Sawyer’s body presses to my back and he guides my head straight, I blink my image into focus.

Something about the lighting—or the man standing behind me—makes this worse than in the comfort of Thorne’s bedroom, with a man content with secrets and silence, and frankly, minding his own business. I saw myself then. I know. It was so recent, I carry the image in my mind.

This is not it.

This skin is not pale; it is sickly. Disheveled, silver-blonde strands frame a pointed face the way smeared, blood-red lips frame bleached canines. Beauty, almost—if not so marked by the devil.

“Satisfied?” I croak as I stare into eyes that make babies cry. They’re so close to being like Sawyer’s. Every time I look into his irises I’m mesmerized by the striking shade of blue, but my own take it too far. Two shades away from human.

The bruises on my face are fading little by little, but the ugly white of my skin will hold onto them longer than they should. My hand flinches toward my face, then lowers as Sawyer combs my hair off my shoulders.

He leans toward my ear. “Take off your clothes.”

What? I almost ask but don’t bother. His commanding tone is all the clarification one could need. He’s had plenty of practice anchoring his pitch—one hundred and seventy-six women before me.

I meet his eyes in the mirror as a buzzing sensation comes over me. Dread. Desire. I’m not sure anymore if there’s a difference when it comes to Sawyer.

We’re back at the training house again, before I was really me. Back when I was at his mercy. When I was in a constant state of discomfort.

I remember now why I don’t hate him for everything he did. I remember how alive it made me feel.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I return my gaze to my reflection and pull my sweater over my head.

Sawyer takes a step back and crosses his arms as if settling in to watch. There’s a playful yet serious edge to his demeanor that either excites or terrifies me.

My hands reach around to unclasp my bra, and as the material falls to the ground, my eyes draw to the pink of my nipples, light like cherry blossoms against a backdrop of snow.

I crook my thumbs into the waist of my warm, furlined pants and slowly pull them down, head tilting as I watch more ghostly skin revealed in the mirror. Muscles I touch but never study grab my attention with each movement, and I run my hand down my naked calf before stepping out of my pants.

Last are my underwear.

My skin flushes as I peel away the black to reveal the patch of hair I’ve grown more and more conscious of since knowing Sawyer.

When I glance at him in the mirror, he’s staring between my legs. His head is slightly cocked, his arms crossed. There’s no smile on his face or even a hint of playfulness.

I drag my underwear off with my foot and stand tall once again, fully exposed. Skin pale but smooth and unblemished—a lie. As if my body has never learned pain, never received injury that mottled my flesh the way it has Sawyer’s.

He steps up to me and takes my hands at my sides. He threads his fingers through mine and holds me steady as if he thinks at any moment I'll try to cover myself. It didn’t occur to me until now that I’m still conditioned not to in front of Sawyer.

“Do you see what I see?” he asks softly, his chin resting just above my ear.

I meet his eyes in the mirror and am quiet for several seconds while I try to understand his point of this.

“I think it’s likely I see myself the way the rest of the world does. I do have eyes,” I say, my voice deceptively calm, though inside, my chest tightens. There’s a chill that settles within my ribcage, like something is literally gripping my heart.

Pathetic.

Sawyer unthreads one hand so he can latch onto my jaw and guide my head straight. I stare at my reflection at his silent command and suck in a quiet, sharp breath when my heart leaps.