Page 57 of A Sin So Pure

Nora pulls apart a loaf of still-steaming bread, dropping one piece onto my plate and popping another into her mouth.

“Well, the offer still stands.” She smiles, and it’s the softest tilt of her lips I’ve ever seen on her. “Or you can go tell your grandma thank you for me.”

“Of course. Will do,” he says, turning away.

“Oh, and Wes?” Nora calls.

“Yes?” He jolts to a stop, wide eyes turned our way.

“Good job the other night. I’m adding you to the guard rotation human-side.”

His smile is tight-lipped, rosy cheeks getting redder at the praise. I’m still watching the door swing back and forth when Nora speaks again.

“That’s Claude’s younger brother. Half brother. Their dad was a cheating bastard, but their moms raised them right.” Nora begins serving herself food off the many platters. “He made a stupid mistake recently, but he cares about his family. He’s overall eager to prove himself. And he’s powerful. I don’t want him falling through the cracks.”

I nod, understanding.

Rising in the ranks of your House can hold a level of danger, bringing you closer to the powerful players in the city, Royals and Sins alike. But there are a thousand worse ways a kid can get lost, tied up in the wrong kind of trouble.

“So, you’ve taken him on as a protégé?”

She hums, her head bobbing from side to side. “He has potential.”

“You care for him.”

Nora’s knife pauses mid-slice in the pan of lasagna. Her brows knit together.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she says. “He reminds me of me.”

“I think it’s sweet,” I say.

She doesn’t respond, her attention trained on her knife stabbing into the layers of pasta, cheese, and meat. Her tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip, then her eyes dart towards me with a devious glint. A flirty mask slides over her face.

“You’re sweet,” she says.

“Charming,” I snort, but my cheeks still heat.

She’s in a good mood tonight. Hope tickles my gut.

I serve myself, using the tongs to deposit a heaping portion of the garlic and oil pasta with clams onto my plate. Nora cuts me aslice of the infamous lasagna and another piece of bread, telling me to use it to sop up the extra sauce.

We fall into a peaceful silence as we pass the family style dishes back and forth, filling our plates—though it’s less of a silence and more of a lull in conversation. The room itself is quite loud, a symphony of forks and knifes scraping against ceramic and littleoohsandaahsover mouthfuls of pasta. They are the sounds of contentment, so different from the overly animated screams and giggles I’m used to at the Den.

It’s a new kind of intimacy to bear witness to.

I like it.

A child runs past us, hair whipping wildly around her face and arms tightly clutched around an entire basket of bread. Right behind her are her siblings, screaming for her to slow down. My chest shakes with restrained laughter—how many times had Conor and I chased each other around our mother’s apartment like that when we were little?

As I twirl spaghetti around my fork, a curiosity finds itself on my tongue.

“Do you want kids one day?” I blurt out.

The blood drains from Nora’s cheeks.

“What?” Nora sputters, nearly choking on the pasta in her mouth.

She coughs, face turning red as she pats at her chest. When she finally clears her throat—and after guzzling down half a glass of water—she takes a large steadying breath.

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