Page 98 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“You faked your death,” I say, “tortured your brother for years with guilt, and now you think getting him to fuck me will, what? Make him give up being a priest? That’s the best you got?”

Another slap turns my head. My hair rips as the force pulls me from her fist.

Good.

I spit out blood, then grin at her. “I think you’re just a sick pervert. I think⁠—”

“He stole it from me!” she shrieks in my face. “The mark is mine. My birthright.” She jams her thumb into her waistband and yanks it down enough for me to see a birthmark on her hip. “See? They passed on him when he was born, and then gave it to me!”

I make a show of inspecting her mark. “You should get that looked at. Could be cancerous.”

Her jaw drops for a full ten seconds before she straightens and visibly gathers her composure. “Why do I even bother?”

“I don’t know. Why do you?” I ask, completely serious. “I mean, whatever dregs of demonic power you received from the curse mustn’t be that powerful; otherwise you’d have taken back what Cisco apparently stole years ago.” I tilt my head, studying her. “You can’t steal it back, can you?”

Her jaw works as her teeth grind, but she says nothing. Her silence is better than words because now I know why all the drama.

Whoever “They” are, they want him to fall in love with me. Then when they kidnap me, they can trade me for his share of the curse.

“He has to return it voluntarily, doesn’t he?” I ask, then laugh. “And you think he’ll fall for this little damsel in distress charade?”

“He already has.” Hannah’s shoulders slump, and she suddenly looks exhausted. “You know what’s weird? I put you in that dress, messed with your mind, manipulated you, and, yes—made you play the damsel. Somehow, out of everyone, I thought it would be enough for you to understand. I thought you of all people would get it.”

“That you’re psycho?”

“That it’s us women who always have to be better than the men, more pretty, more perfect. We’re the ones who pay the price. We get left behind to suffer while they’re the ones who get all the credit.” A tired laugh huffs out of her. “It’s fucked up.”

Her eyes lift skyward, and she blinks rapidly. Is she . . . crying?

“One tantrum,” she murmurs to the ceiling. “That’s all it was—a child’s tantrum—and half the gift goes to him.” She shakes her head. “Just like everything went to him while I was starving and learning fucking ballet lessons.”

A part of me sinks in solidarity. Being looked over because you’re a woman feels very familiar. It sucks. But what hurts more is when another woman can’t see it, and she needs to get the fuck out of here.

“Sounds like you were just being too emotional,” I suggest, then roll my eyes dramatically. “If I were ‘They,’ I would have probably passed you over too.”

The look of disgust on her face says it all. “Emotion is the entire reason this plan will work.”

“It won’t.”

“Guess we’re about to find out how much he loves you.” She checks her watch, and then says to the men, “Do whatever you want with her. Just don’t take longer than thirty minutes and then kill her afterward.”

“Don’t you need me alive to ransom?” I ask.

She snorts. “He only needs to think you’re alive.”

“You’re not even taking the sword?”

“Why would I?” She shrugs. “It’s dull and useless . . . just like you.”

My disbelief must show on my face because she laughs and goes to pick it up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

As her fingers wrap around it, the metal hisses. Smoke curls as it did with Jasmine. She turns the sword in her wrist with a flourish, but I catch the wince in her eyes. Her skin sizzles, burning as it reacts to the item’s holiness. Doesn’t she see that? Doesn’t she realize it’s not doing that with me? A quick flip and she grabs the blade, then hands the sword to me, hilt first.

“Go on,” she dares, dead eyes locked onto mine. “Take it.”

My gaze dips to my bound wrists, then I arch my eyebrow at her. “Is that a joke?”

She smirks and drops it. Metal clatters on concrete.