Page 6 of Sin

“An attack like you had last night is not happening again,” he states, his jaw set and determined. “An asthma specialist will make sure of that.”

Why does he even care?“How did you even get a doctor’s appointment on a Sunday?” I look out the window at the darkness. “And this early?”

He gives a cocky shrug. “I won’t hear no, and I’m willing to pay premium for a yes.”

Money is just another one of the huge differences between Sin and me. He’s rich. Really rich. I’m not. Before my mom remarried, we were barely making it, and in the prenup my mother signed, Gideon is only required to provide lodging and food for me. She’s responsible for the rest of my upkeep, but since she doesn’t work, I’m always scrambling for extra money. I do a lot of online tutoring to keep afloat.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I insist. I don’t like him spending his money on me. “Since I’m gonna be a student at Thurston, I can just wait and make an appointment at the health center on Monday.”

Sin’s eyes darken, and his mouth gets tight like I’ve insulted him somehow. His knee comes down on the bed as he leans toward me and grips my shoulders. “There’s no fucking way I’m gonna let you go to some second-rate, crackerjack-boxuniversity doctor who’s only used to treating the flu and the clap.”

I start to protest. He shakes my shoulders and leans closer. “Go get ready,” he orders, his lips close enough to me that I feel the soft buzz of his words in my ear, “or I’ll carry you into the shower and wash you myself.”

I gulp.He really wouldn’t do that, would he?

“Cassidy,” he says in warning.

I look at the determined glint in his eyes and the stubborn lock of his jaw that answers my question.Of course, he would.The new question is—would that be so bad?

My body and my mind have two different opinions, but when his muscles tense as if to pick me up, I panic. “Okay. Okay.” I push at his chest. “Let me go.”

His arms release me, and I jump out of bed, careful to face away from him so he doesn’t see how hard I am. Gathering a few things from my unpacked suitcase, for just a second, I swear I see something like disappointment in his eyes. I must be wrong, because in a microsecond it’s gone as he throws a pillow at me. “Hurry up,” he yells.

I guess I’m the only one who’s left disappointed.

I feel sorry for Dr. Chaudhary. Sin has been interrogating her for the last hour. I guess it helps that he paid her an outrageous amount of money for her to fly from New York to Nashville for the consult.

I cringe over the money he spent, but I’m grateful because she’s completely revolutionized my treatment plan. Changing my medications out for ones that have fewer side effects and replacing my inhaler with one that’s not even on the marketyet. She had me test it out, and it immediately eased the severe tightness in my chest I’d been experiencing since last night’s attack.

When Sin is finally convinced I’m receiving the most optimal care, he cross-examines Dr. Chaudhary about the malfunctioning inhalers, dumping them out on the desk, and wanting to know the exact mechanics that could lead to their failure. She’s checked for a recall and didn’t find one, but promised to send them to the manufacturer for further study.

After making the doctor promise to contact him immediately with the results, we jump in Sin’s car and he drives us back to the compound, which houses the Citadel, the name of the church Gideon started while Sin’s mother was still alive.

Sin is quiet as he weaves in and out of traffic, blasting heavy metal music, obviously trying to charge himself up for the next three hours.

I don’t blame him. I never used to mind church before it became my duty as Gideon Brandt’s stepson to attend his services. Before my dad got sick, he would sometimes take me to the small, non-denominational church by our house. It was nice. Lydia, the pastor, wore colorful caftans and chunky jewelry and hugged everyone at the church door as they entered. She would begin every service telling her parishioners that no matter who they were, who they loved, that they were welcome on this communal journey to become closer to God.

I’d been totally unprepared for the Citadel. First of all, it was huge, and instead of a simple sermon like I’d been used to every Sunday, Gideon Brandt put on a show. There was music, flashing lights, and always several large buckets being passed around for donations. That wasn’t what had bothered me, though. I’d been shocked at the fiery messages of hate and fear Gideon preached. Maybe it was me, but I didn’t see any room for an all-loving God in his ideology, and I’d begun dreadingattending the sermons. One of the good things about being sent to Massachusetts to attend school was missing out on Gideon’s services at the Citadel every Sunday.

As we near the parking lot, there is a huge collection of bikers parked around the perimeter of the church. They’re all wearing cuts that proclaim them as members of the Reivers Motorcycle Club.

I look to Sin for explanation.

“They’re in charge of security now,” Sin says.

“Security?” I remember there always being several off-duty police officers around before to direct and oversee the large crowds that flooded to see Gideon preach every Sunday, but this battalion of heavily armed and intimidating bikers seems wrong at a place of worship.

“You must not be tuning into dear old dad’s sermons,” he says in mock shock. You haven’t heard how he’s teamed up with Digger Mcree, the leader of the Reivers? They’re planning on touring together this summer in a series of men’s rights rallies.”

“I’ve been too busy with school,” I tell him, not wanting to admit how much I hate Gideon’s services. The blush I feel on my cheeks clearly signaling my lie.

Sin watches the play of color on my skin, his lips quirking up at my falsehood. “My father has declared there is a war going on between the moral and the sinful. He calls the Reivers his ‘army of righteousness in his battle against the devil.’”

I digest that. “Where do you fit in on this?” I ask, curious to know how he aligns with his father’s views these days.

“Have you also been too busy at school to not read all the articles and posts written about me?” He slowly studies me as if ferreting out any more lies I might tell him. “According to my father,” he says, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes, “I’m the devil.”

I don’t know how to respond to that statement, and I think he wants a reaction from me because after pulling his Audi R8 straight up to the Citadel’s front doors, he turns the car off, releases his seatbelt, and turns to me. “Do you agree with him, Cassidy?” He leans in and I almost feel intoxicated by the smell of him—a darkly spiced complex scent, that, like him, seems both exotic and forbidden to my senses. “Do you think I’m bad?” he asks, his voice low as it roughly vibrates against my ear. “Would you follow me into temptation?”

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