Page 76 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“What?”

Brown eyes lift to mine, and I see the helpless terror lurking there. It’s the same look he had after we left the terrace. Bits and pieces of the past hour crash back to me, clicking together to form a new shape. Something happened at the end of dinner that made him avoid going back downstairs. He just wanted to come up here with me. Somewhere we could be alone together.

Somewhere, he wouldn’t feel alone.

But now he’s pulling away from me. I sense it like a cold wind hinting at a storm.

“You truly think you’ll hurt me?” I whisper, keeping my tone soft so he doesn’t mistake this for anger. “Haven’t I proven that I trust you, that I won’t break?”

His eyes squeeze shut. But no answer.

“Then what?” My throat constricts. Shame tries to push in, trying to remind me of that lonely ache from my past, but I refuse it. “Do you not want to . . . take me like this?”

His eyes flip open with reproach. “Of course I do.”

Relief sags my chest. My mind races for another explanation, but the only thing I keep returning to is that we’re a match. We fit like broken pieces of the same cracked vase. So if we’re the same, and I was terrified that he’ll leave me if he found out my secret shame . . . then he’s probably feeling the same way.

His reluctance started after he gripped my cilice wounds and accidentally hurt me. There’s no point in telling him that it doesn’t matter. I see that now—words mean nothing. The fact is, with appetites like ours, lives like ours, he will most definitely hurt me.

It’s inevitable.

The more I think about it, the more Asmodeus’s words make sense: I am the patron saint of everything people crave so badly they’re willing to lie about it.

I get why I’m one of his.

I hate lies, and I hate the ones we tell our loved ones most. I can’t live my life in fear that Cisco is always holding back a piece of himself. My father did that, and there was nothing I could do but watch him fade away.

Determination fills me as I slide my legs off Cisco’s shoulders and sit upright. He tries to hide his disappointment by looking away, which is perfect. He doesn’t see me coming.

I grab his thick wrists, yank his balance off center, and twist our positions so I’m on top. I shove him down hard just like I did when we sparred. He spills backward against the pillows with an oof.

He scrambles back and leans against the wall, eyes wide as I straddle his hips.

“Mercy—”

“Whatever I want,” I remind him.

His jaw clicks shut.

“You said I could have whatever I want, right?”

He nods warily.

I reach between our tangled bodies and grasp his shaft. It’s so hard it’s like rock, but still slick with oil.

His fists slam on the mattress, and he growls, “I’ll ruin you.”

“I am already ruined.”

Shock splashes over his face, and I hate it. I hate that it’s the look of someone who thinks I’m a saint when I’m not.

“You told me you didn’t want to be alone anymore,” I accuse. “You said I felt like peace. Prove it.”

“You don’t understand,” he croaks.

Something on his shoulder moves. When I look down and focus, I see tiny black spikes sliding beneath his skin along the lines of his tattoos. He notices at the same time as me and shoves me off his lap.

“I’m not afraid of your shadows,” I tell him, lifting my chin.