Page 94 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I’ve read that before, haven’t I? Or something close?

A spot on my neck itches. I can’t scratch it, and it drives me up the wall.

Focus. Forget about the mural.

I close my eyes to concentrate. Cisco said he’d be right back. I didn’t dream that. He kissed me and . . . and then he left.

Fuck, that spot is itchy. I lift my shoulder and try to scratch it, but miss.

You’re a little Jezebel, Joan. A demon sent to drag him to Hell.

My pulse quickens. Sweat prickles as my body heats, and the smell of sour perfume and bleach blooms. It reminds me again of the institution . . . the things they said to me, the way I embraced the identity they gave me, just to prove them all wrong.

But what if they’re right?

Ruinous life. That’s what Asmodeus called it, and after last night, I thought it was a good thing.

But now all I’m thinking about is the ruin part of those words. The destruction. The regret.

Another fly buzzes near my head, but I can’t swat it away. Goddammit, I’m itchy again.

Maybe it was too much for Cisco last night, and I scared him off. All that bullshit I spouted about not giving fucks for people who don’t deserve it. Of course we should. If we stop caring, then what’s the point of anything? That’s not what I meant, but what if he thinks it is?

Maybe I was too confusing, too demanding, too much.

My thighs clamp instinctively together, desperate for the sharp, grounding bite of my chain cilices. Nothing but cheap, scratchy fabric rubs my sweaty, bare skin. That spot itches to the point of pain. My vision blurs, and sunflowers morph into blobs. I blink rapidly until I see clearly enough to make out faint purple bruises above my knees. My heart tugs. They’re shaped exactly like Cisco’s large, calloused fingers.

I want to make my own marks here. Make new reasons for them.

I stare at those bruises until the blood roaring in my ears slows down. He didn’t grip me like a man using a whore. He hates that word. No, he isn’t like that. When he holds me, it’s like he’s a man drowning, and I’m the only thing keeping him afloat.

I close my eyes again and try again to focus. Breathe. Think calming thoughts. Think about how Cisco looked when we were underwater in the pool at the abbey. I remember his eyes widening and filling with so many emotions I still can’t name them. But they were powerful enough for me to feel them, to know he was grateful for me, to need me. Just as he needed me last night.

When I’m in the same room as you, it’s peace.

I keep my eyes closed, keep breathing slowly and deliberately while I conjure the feel of his touch against my skin, his spicy male scent, the warmth, the way he trembles when he first gets all hot and hard for me. A small smile touches my lips. Without fail, every time he’s aroused, in the beginning he shakes. It’s almost as if he’s overcome with how much he wants me. Or he’s afraid I’m a bubble about to burst. My demon-cursed, ex-mafia enforcer can take a man’s life without blinking but was shaking like a leaf because he was terrified he would break me.

Cisco thinks his darkness will ruin me, but I beat his shadows back.

And when I told him I would never walk away? The way his control shattered . . . God. He didn’t just fuck me then. He took me like he was starving, like he’d die if anyone tried to stop him. He trusted me enough to unleash all that pent-up longing. When he gripped my thighs hard enough to mark me, it was because he was holding on for dear life.

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Those bruises prove a man finally stayed.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I hitch my shoulder and smash it against that infuriating spot on my neck. Something pops and crackles against my skin. Frowning, I open my eyes and see an overgrown fly carcass tumble down my body and land on someone’s boots.

I lift my head and lock eyes with Hannah.

Alarm bells ring in the back of my mind. That’s my first instinct. Shouldn’t it be relief?

I guess that reaction answers whether I thought she was in league with Jasmine.

“Finally,” she drones. “Sleeping Beauty is awake.”

She looks the same as always. Austere bob, black Sinner clothes—no, wait. She’s not wearing the uniform. It’s just black. There’s not even a weapon strapped to her body.

I yank on the duct tape binding my wrists. “What the fuck is this? Hannah . . . stop playing around and free me.”