Page 3 of The Sinner's Bargain

We were just adding the final touches to the contract naming me the owner of an underground club at the heart of downtown’s hottest strip when Cyrus slipped into the room. Eyes the pale blue of the Arctic met mine briefly, a flicker to assure me the task was complete before all but melting into the wall next to the door.

“I will personally hand-deliver these in the morning.” Vance checked the Rolex on his thin wrist and added, “In three hours.”

My gaze slanted to the sickly, yellow film collecting against the gray grime crusted across the glass. The light barely penetrated the room but filtered through enough to make me aware of dawn’s approach over a new day.

“We’ll stop here.” I rolled back my chair and unfurled stiff limbs. “Get some rest.”

Oliver stayed in his sulking position, but Vance rose quickly and gathered up our paperwork. They were tucked beneath his arm as he inclined his head to me.

Cyrus followed me into the corridor now dimly lit by the weak fingers of light creeping in through the dome of stained-glass overhead.

It had been years since I’d seen the images depicted in the mural now smeared beneath a thick layer of wet leaves, sludge, and mold. I couldn’t even be sure there were images. Maybe just a shredded patchwork of colors? Maybe nothing. I didn’t care.

Dust floated up beneath our feet as we took the main staircase to the first floor. Cyrus said nothing, a trait I highly valued in the man. We’d been brothers since diapers, and I could almost count every conversation we’d ever had.

“How did he get in?” I asked upon hitting the top landing and the murky catacomb of corridors ahead.

“We found bolt cutters in his bag. He cut the electric fence. It triggered the alarms.”

“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath. Louder, I said, “Was he alone?”

Cyrus inclined his dark head once. “We tracked his car half a mile down the road. Lyle is wiping his cellphone location now and we’ll dispose of both at the yard once he’s done.”

I filled air into my lungs and trapped it there until the burn was too much and I had to exhale in a deep sigh and mutter, “It doesn’t matter.”

Heavy brows knitted together over eyes filled with disapproval. “As the head of your security team, I disagree.”

He wasn’t, though.

He’d been the head of my father’s security team back when Aerys Lacroix was still alive. Cyrus had dedicated his entire life to thanking my father for saving his life as a baby, for buying him off his addict father, and for raising him as his own. He’d worshipped the ground the older man had walked on. After Father was nearly killed during a drive-by, Cyrus took it upon himself to become a lethal killing machine trained in every weapon and technique. Ultimately, it was the sight of my mother’s broken body at the foot of the stairs that ended my father’s life, a fate even Cyrus couldn’t save him from. I knew it was a weight he unnecessarily carried. It was partially why I hadn’t argued when he simply slipped into the role for me.

He needed it and I wouldn’t have denied him anything.

At the threshold of my room, I faced the other man squarely. “Go to bed.”

Cyrus never so much as batted an eye at the command. “You first.”

I did roll my eyes then.

The age-old argument between two people with insomnia was laughable, but we knew we’d both be awake in an hour and starting a new day.

Shaking my head, I stepped into the heavy darkness, the musty stench of rot and whatever fabric softener Olly’s wife used on the bedding. A weighted silence settled against the grainy heat I lived in, a familiar grit against my skin as I moved blindly across the familiar space, shedding clothes as I went. Smooth hardwood rose into worn carpet, and I had five steps before I got to the edge of my mattress.

Lilacs.

The sweet perfume lifted around the bulk of my naked frame as I sank into the feathers and fabric. My eyes closed even though I knew nothing would come of it. Not when I could hear the whispers start just inside the walls.

I allowed myself an hour before giving up the façade and rolling free of the sheets. The cotton square was chucked back on the mattress and left rumpled as I padded the eight steps through the pitch darkness to the bathroom in nothing but skin and scars.

They no longer tingled with the torment of a million fire ants marching beneath the ropes of disfigured flesh. Most were faded to a pale pink, barely noticeable while others rose like roots splintering down my forearm and twining my leg in all the places carefully hidden beneath a tapestry of art and colors.

It could have been worse, Dr. Roberts had said with his head bent over the thread and needle he worked into my flesh.

After months of walking with a cane, battling infections, and ripping threads, I knew he was right. Death was always worse, but they served as a reminder to trust no one. Even friends could betray you and that was a lesson I learned the hard way.

I stood before the gilded mirror, an angry sight glowering back at a million splintered versions of myself in the cracked glass. Heavily hooded eyes bore into mine beneath perpetually creased brows. It was a deformity I couldn’t undo. They seemed stuck in that frown.

They dipped even lower the longer I stared at them as if annoyed by my own annoyance, but I didn’t look away. Not even as I scooped up the inky strands falling in tangled waves around my face into a messy knot at the top of my head and stepped into the shower.

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