Page 9 of A Sin So Pure

Blood runs down my back; twin rivers of red bracket my spine. These are wounds that will scar, ones made with iron blades crafted specifically to mark our skin with proof of our clipped wings.

I clear my throat, shifting at the phantom pain that slices between my shoulder blades.

“I thought I made myself clear that while clippings may be a part of our history, they will not be a part of our House’s future.”

“But, Boss, it’s tradition?—”

“If Wes wants to prove his worth to me, he can find another way of doing it. Understood?” I say, my tone laced with ice.

Claude shuts his mouth, a good little soldier.

“Yes, Boss.”

“Good. Hattie? Any updates on the paperwork? Then we can head out.”

She nods, her curls bouncing with the action. Pulling a folder of papers from a bag at her side, she places them on the desk in front of me.

“These are the permit applications you asked for. They were hard to dig up, being fifty years old, but the library had a copy from old imports that I was able to get my hands on.”

I pick up the folder and leaf through the pages. The paper is old, yellowed, and stiff between my fingers. I catch a whiff of musk as I rifle through them, and a tingle of excitement works its way through me at the scent. It’s a prickle of anticipation that has me biting my tongue.

“Do you really think Silas will approve this?” Hattie asks. Then she whispers, “Wouldn’t it be easier to sell it on the black market?”

“Silas would find out within days. This is bigger than human drugs.” Josie shakes her head. “It’s better to go to him first. If we follow a semblance of protocol, get people excited about the product, it puts pressure on him to concede. Otherwise, it’s likely he’ll squash the venture without a second thought.”

I snap the folder shut, flicking it back on the desk.

“Then we’re all in agreement. I’ll bring the proposal to him tomorrow at the Sins meeting.” I look each of my inner circle in the eye as I grab the bottle from the desk and tuck it into my coat. “You’re all to keep quiet about this until then. Got it?”

Three nods have me smirking.

“Then let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

3

IMOGEN

The night is ripe with mischief.

Waves of heady arousal and glittering joy crash over me as I step into the Den, which means there’sjustenough debauchery going on in my bar.

I stroll between champagne towers and giggling patrons, shooting soft smiles at those who turn my way. When one of the servers passes me, balancing a platter of fresh drinks on one shoulder, they nod. It’s a silent signal for me to follow.

Pivoting in their direction, my heels click on the black-and-white tiled floor. Our band’s crooning saxophone and plucky piano fade to the background as she leads me to the back corner, far away from the active bar and dance floor. Here, in the corner, warmly lit by a bronzed overhead sconce, three gentlemen sit in a booth. With their sharp black suits and leering smiles, I immediately clock them as Royals—distant cousins and courtiers of the king.

Unseelie Royals always have thisairabout them. Even fae without magic like my own can sense the way they exude a specific brand of unearned confidence. They think because they’re related to Silas that they run this city. They think because they don’t belong to a House that they sitabovethe Houses.

But their food is grown on Gluttony’s fields, their money is held in Greed’s banks, and their guns, cars, and shiny human oddities come from Pride’s supply chain. They’re watched over by Wrath’s soldiers, and they’re housed in the flats Sloth builds. They enjoy entertainment provided by Envy, and their secrets are kept by my House.

Sure, Silas is the king and the most powerful fae on this side of Faerie. And he may keep the Seelie out with the shadow veil he erected fifty years ago. But they’re delusional if they really think they have more power than the Sins.

Still, appearances must be upheld.

“Gentlemen,” I say. “How are we tonight?”

The server deposits their drinks and doesn’t linger, leaving me with the three men.

“Lust,” one purrs, his yeasty beer-breath wafting across the table. “You are ravishing tonight. But that’s expected.”

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