Page 123 of Glutton for Punishment

I’m sure I sound insane.

Dean Bellows studies me for a long moment. Her expression stays composed, calculating.

“If my reports from Councilor West are correct,” she says, “you experienced a traumatic event involving your power recently.”

Shame creeps up my neck, hot and immediate. I nod stiffly.

“It could be,” she continues, “that the event has subconsciously altered your ability to access your sin power.”

My hands curl at my sides. It doesn’t feel subconscious.

“We will proceed as planned,” the Dean adds. “For now, we adjust expectations. You will still attend Instructor Pox’s power class.”

Her eyes flick to the others, then back to me.

“I believe with time and structured control, you will regain access.”

The instructors move again, murmuring to each other as they step out, and I’m left standing alone, still reaching for a power that refuses to answer.

I used it before. I know I did. I know what it feels like. The hunger. The pull. The awful, intoxicating rush of it.

So where the hell did it go?

Chapter 35

Arwen

The smell of smoke and herbs overwhelm me before I even step into the potions room.

The classroom looks similar to the Gluttony general sin rotation from last year. Dark green bottles line towering shelves from floor to ceiling. Copper instruments gleam beneath hanging lights. Mortars grind. Liquids bubble. Students casually stir mixtures that look capable of dissolving human organs.

Which, knowing Gluttony, they probably can.

And this time I’ll be an active participant and not just an observer. Conversation dies down and whispers pick up as I walk in.

“Is she part of the West family now?”

“No way.”

“I heard she’s bonded to Maddox, though.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t come back with her.”

“Maybe he got bored already.”

I pretend not to hear any of it and keep walking toward an empty seat near the middle of the room—

Suddenly a hand shoots out and yanks my wrist. I whip around.

A random guy covered in at least fifteen different facial piercings grins at me from his chair. Rings line his brows, nose, lips—honestly, I’m not fully convinced they aren’t holding his face together.

“So,” he drawls, squeezing my wrist tighter, “is it true you’ve got some crazy combat power now, or are the rumors all bullshit?”

The whispers die as my pulse spikes in anger. Before I can act, he lets out a sharp hiss of pain. Metal face jerks as another guy steps forward and grips the pressure point between his thumb and wrist.

“Ah—shit!”

At the same time, someone SLAMS both fists onto his desk so hard the glass vials rattle.