Page 53 of A Sin So Pure

“Pride,” Jamison leers when we enter, twisting his sinewy frame our way.

His gaze tracks over me as he licks at his cracked and bleeding lip. A gift from Hattie, I’m sure.

“I wasn’t expecting a visit,” he continues, as if this is a simple, last-minute drop-in on our part.

Josie huffs, circling behind him. Jamison shifts in his seat, smoothing his hands over his thighs, but otherwise keeps his composure.

We’ll fix that.

“Yes, well, there’s been an incident that warranted me making a house call,” I say, striding to the two wooden chairs that sit opposite his desk.

“Oh?” he says. “What can I help you with?”

Playing dumb?I project the thought to my Second.

Josie’s nod is subtle, but I clock it.

Shucking off my jacket, I hang it over one chair. Next, I pick at my gloves. They are the softest black leather and tug easily from each of my fingers; I go finger by finger, pulling one hand free and then the other. They land with a softsmackon top of my coat.

Then, I turn the empty chair around and sit down. My legs are splayed wide as they straddle the seat, and my arms cross over the seatback.

I lean forward.

And I wait.

Most would get right to it—the questioning and the torture. But I’ve learned to savor the edge that silence brings to the air.

My tongue flicks out over my bottom lip. I can taste it on my skin, the anticipation, the question in his gaze as he scans over my soft smile and cold eyes—what is she going to do?

A bead of sweat trails down his face, that leering smile faltering. A single drop splats onto his desk.

“Do you remember what I told you a couple weeks back?” I ask.

“Um…”

“Don’t fuck around with me, Jamie,” I recite. “You won’t enjoy the aftermath.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. But it doesn’t matter what either of us thinks. It’s about what you know. Up here.” I tap my temple. “Did you order a hit on my people?”

Jamison’s face goes pale as he sputters. “Of course not!”

I peer up at Josie, and she shakes her head. She steps forward and places a hand on the back of Jamison’s neck.

His mental shields must be stronger than we anticipated. Josie rarely has to use physical contact to get inside someone’s head; usually she can pick the mental locks from afar. But sometimes she needs a stronger connection to break through.

“I wouldn’t lie. It’ll only make her mad,” Josie says, leaning over his ear.

Jamison’s wide eyes flick to Silas and Wrath, who stand silently at the door.

I sigh, getting out of my chair. Josie anticipates my movements and pulls Jamison’s chair backward so I can get in his face. The metal wheels squeal in protest.

“Nuh-uh, keep those peepers over here.” My fingers press indents in his cheeks as I turn his face to meet his eye. “They’re not going to help you.”

It’s almost too easy, our method.

Pride perfected it when we were young. Pair a rare empath with an even rarer soul-stealer and most people crack under the pressure—whether that pressure be from fear or pain.

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