Page 35 of Spark of Madness

“Hmm,” he hums. “I don’t know. But as soon as I’m aware of your final day, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

His flippancy about my demise sets a fire in my chest. Without thought or care, I put my hands to his chest and shove. My sudden action takes him off guard and he stumbles back, slowly lifting his head and looking up at me from beneath dark lashes.

I’ve incited violence, and now he’ll have a fair reason to retaliate. The Control are anointed by God to meet violence with violence in the name of keeping the peace—one of so many contradictions of our religious law.

His soft, full lips stretch wide across his cheeks to form a straight, hard line, indignant at my action against him.

Two swift steps bring him against me, his hand locking around my throat, then slipping around to the side of my neck, and spinning me to face away from him. Gripping the back of my neck, his touch sends a searing burn through my spine, reminding me of the knife marks still dripping blood down my back.

He marches me along the side of the bed, moving us past it and shoving me toward an open door at the back of the room. My shoulders tense and tighten, lifting against his grip as he shoves me forward. My boot steps from plush carpet to land on cold, hard tile—the transition mimics the contrast of Arlo, and it makes my head spin.

Just as fear weaves between my ribs and ropes around my heart, he stops…and lets me go. I feel the weight of his force drift away, and I whirl around to face him. My hands come up, ready to defend myself, but he takes a step back.

“Take a bath, sinner.” He stands in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, standing so casually that I don’t know what to make of it because I thought he was going to hurt me. “I want you clean before your skin touches the fine clothes we have for you.”

I blink at him, confused. “Are you…are you going to stay there?”

He crosses his arms as he leans. “Does my presence bother you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad.” There’s no violence in his expression. Instead, he smiles, his wide, thick lips turning upward and showing the long lines of his dimples.

He’s disarmingly beautiful, and I know that’s dangerous.

“Go on now,” he says, tilting his head forward to indicate behind me.

I look over my shoulder and glance at the white clawfoot tub in the center of the bathroom. The space is starkly white. The walls are painted a soft, gray-tinted shade of white, and square, white tiles cover the floor. The vanity even has a white marbled countertop.

White, white, white.

No hint of color.

A space for cleansing.

“You seem nervous,” he says, drawing my attention back to him.

Ofcourse, I’m nervous.

Everything in my life has justchanged for the worst.

I cross my arms over my chest, caging in my pounding heart. “I can’t undress with you watching me like that.”

“Like what?” he taunts.

He’s baiting me into this little back and forth, and it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I choose not to respond. Instead, I turn away from him and move to the center of the room, reaching over the edge of the tub to turn on the faucet. Water pours—clear, clean, and heavy—into the oversized tub. If my circumstances were different, I would find joy in the prospect of climbing into the warmth and resting.

But that’s not my circumstance.

My shoulders jump and I startle as Arlo’s fingers suddenly run across my shoulder blades. I feel his hand wrap around my hair, strands catching on the leather of his glove.

“Your hair…it’s the color of the stars in the night sky,” he says softly.

I wonder if I imagined him saying that at first. It’s said in such a gentle way, in a way of wonder. It’s jarring in comparison to the way he calls me a sinner.

It makes my heart beat faster.

I feel his hand turn, fingers combing through, leather catching on a tangle as he drags his hand down the length. I wonder why he doesn’t remove his gloves to touch my hair, which he seems to be so enamored with. I wonder if it’s stained and matted with drying blood from the knife wounds inflicted on my neck.

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