Page 38 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“The rosary.”

“Hm.” Her eyes narrow, amused. “Interesting.”

It’s that humor that calls to the monster in me, coaxes him from his deep, dark slumber curled around my soul. My vision crowds at the edges.

“Put it back,” I repeat.

“Fine.” She holds the beads dangling from her hovering fist and sweeps the room with a glance. “You’re not really the cyanide pill type, anyway.”

But I don’t take the beads. They blur in my vision, and I am still paralyzed with trembling, bone-deep fury, and … fear.

Why?

Air drags into my lungs in ragged breaths. I stare at the beads, wondering why—what is this feeling? Why do I half want to flay her skin and expose her bones, yet the other half wants to scream in horror?

I clutch my shirt beneath the collar, fisting the fabric against the tightness in my chest.

What is this pain?

Oblivious to my state, her hand droops as she continues to scour my room for sharp objects. I search for answers in her unguarded face, but all I learn is that I’m incapable of looking away.

That’s when it hits me.

Seeing those tainted beads in Mercy’s hands—the ones Maria wore as she drowned, the ones I grabbed, and they broke—terrifies me.

What if Mercy knows? What if somehow, she feels my sin and selfishness through that object she touches and knows?

It’s an irrational fear, but a chill creeps up my spine, nonetheless. I grind out through clenched teeth, “Put it back.”

“I’m waiting for you to take it.” Her gaze flicks down to my fist beneath my throat, then back up, impassive.

It’s the same look she gave Jasmine. A test. This isn’t a game. This is her life in my hands, quite literally. It’s me hanging on by a thread. My fingers lock around her wrist. It feels so fragile in my fist. Her bones are so breakable. I know I’m hurting her. Can see the pain in her eyes, in the way her pupils contract to pinpricks, but she has awoken the devil, and now it must speak.

I lean down until my mouth is beside her ear and grind out through my teeth, “Put. It. Back. Same place you found it.”

“Say please,” she whispers.

My lips curve, sliding against the silken shell of her ear, and when she shivers, I have the urge to bite. To draw blood. To lick and gorge myself.

Do it. See what her insides taste like.

It takes every ounce of self-control to release her wrist, and it comes one finger at a time. But that’s all I manage. The rest of me stays locked, muscles immovable and oh-so-close to her luscious body.

A beat of time passes.

Another.

I breathe electrified air in through my nose. Out heavily.

Then I feel movement, the slow glide of her palm into my pocket. My eyelashes flutter with relief as the rosary’s weight falls.

Suddenly ashamed, I step back and lean my head against the wall, eyes closed. Even through the darkness, I feel her presence like a ray of sun on my skin, and then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut and then locks.

I drop onto the single cot, head in my hands. The thin mattress does not give, and I feel the springs beneath. Outside, I am numb, but the word is a lie. Inside, I am in turmoil. Inside, I am loud, filled with the noise of a siren blaring a single, high-pitched frequency of failure.

Worse.