Page 77 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“And that’s the problem,” he snarls. “I will empty your soul.”

“My soul is already yours.”

“I will hurt you,” he growls.

“I know.”

“Then why . . .”

“Nothing worthwhile gained is painless.” I get up on my knees and point in his face. “And if you lied about the reason you’re really avoiding this, after everything I’ve proven, then I know it’s worth the pain.”

I can’t even say what it is, because to voice it aloud hurts me too. I’m afraid of it too because I’ve never had it. I’ve never been loved like this, and I want it more desperately than anything in the world.

Can’t he see that?

“Mercy.” His head hangs, throat working.

I give him a moment to process this, and I glare at his shadows, daring them to challenge me.

Come on, cowards. Come and get me.

They don’t, yet when Cisco lifts his head and our gazes clash, pitch-black has swallowed the whites of his eyes.

Demonic black.

But still filled with so much terror.

Twenty-Six

Mercy

Instead of running, I launch myself at Cisco. He tries to avoid me, but I catch him before he can get off the bed and wrench him back to face me. I fling my arms around his neck, climb onto his lap, and hug him as tightly as I can.

“I’m not leaving,” I say into his neck. Don’t make me leave.

He goes so still at first, so quiet, that I’m not sure if I did the right thing. I wait with bated breath for a sign, a sound, a movement.

But then slowly, I feel his hands descend on my hips. Next, I feel the air rush out of his lips on my hair. His face drops to my neck, and his arms circle me until he’s hugging me back just as tightly.

We stay like this for long moments, listening to the gentle rain, hearts pounding against each other’s chests as we battle our bodies’ needs. I still want him. He still wants me. But I never once loosen my hold.

I wait.

The room narrows to small things first. The bite of Cisco’s fingers at my waist, the wet heat of his ragged breath on my throat, the feel of him still hard beneath me.

Then I start to notice other small things that somehow feel large. Joan of Arc’s wrapped sword on the floor, dull and impotent. The framed photo by the light switch is of a boy and a girl at the beach. It’s Cisco and his little sister. Brotherly affection in his eyes hides behind the annoyance.

That’s how truth comes, I think. A collection of small things growing into big things.

A baby.

An early bloom.

A hand not held.

A father who left while still alive.

A mother’s love turning to poison because it was easier to live with than envy.