Page 52 of Spark of Madness

I’m overcome with the impulse to ravage, relief promised in her warmth.

Wildflowers and starlight.

Starlight and hellfire.

Hellfire and lust and sin.

I lose myself in the sin of her, yet in that sin…

I’m found.

I sit back in my chair, reading the words on the page—blasphemous words of lust that shouldn’t be on record. I tear the page from my journal and crumple it into a ball as I stand and cross my room to the fireplace. I draw my hand back, prepared to toss it into the fire, but the flame catches my attention and stills my hand. The dancing orange flickers with shimmers of white light that remind me of the stars—of starlight, ofher.

Her starlight hair will be the death of me.

My grip on the crumpled page loosens, but I can’t seem to let it go. I can’t bring myself to burn the words that ring so true.

I unfold the page and read the words again.

I lose myself in the sin of her, yet in that sin…

I’m found.

I’ve never written with such ease; I’ve never written with such cadence. She’s a muse as much as she is anything else.

She’s also a sinner, a demon of lust who wants to possess me. And she did possess me for moments as we came undone, and I have no doubt she could do it again. Shewilldo it again if I’m not careful.

I need discipline.

I need self-control.

I need to punish myself for this transgression.

I drop the crumpled paper on the carpet. I take the candelabra from the mantle and tip it toward the flames, dipping the wick of the candle into the fireplace until it catches. I pull it out and carry it to my desk, setting down the silver candle holder before lowering into my chair. I lift the long ivory candle from the holder and reach toward the flame, the tip of my finger hovering beside the dancing glow.

I revel in the anticipation of pain, the preemptive, knowing ache of my skin as I await the searing burn. I inch my finger closer, tempting the heat, yearning for the pain that reminds me why I need to control myself…Because if I don’t, I will burn in hell, and this is the pain of the flames I’ll feel for an eternity.

I push my finger toward the flame, but it twitches before it touches, and it gives me pause. The pause makes me feel weak, and I can’t be weak—not with myself and especially, not with Mercy.

I drag in a deep breath and move my hand above the flame, hovering above the flickering tip. I force fear from my mind, and I lower my hand quickly, dropping it so the center of my palm falls into the fire.

I hiss as it burns my skin, groan as the ache deepens, as I let it heat my flesh and hope that it adds another scar. I remove my hand while the pain is still intense, knowing I will have burned too deep and deadened the nerve endings when the pain ceases. My hand is shaking as I turn it over and witness the red blistering flesh in the center of my palm.

I’ll remember this mark whenever I think of Mercy as anything more than a sinner and a trial participant…whenever I think of her whimpers, her flesh, her starlight strands of hair.

This mark is for her.

This mark isbecauseof her.

It’s a reminder of the pain that awaits me in death if I let her drag me into sin with her.

But somehow, I already know it’s a pain I’d welcome.

chapter seventeen

Mercy

IVY JANE'S CHARREDremains are on display in the center of the village square. It’s bleak and gray today, a soft breeze cutting through the air. Arlo leads Delle and I to the black mass of servants kneeling in their dark clothes facing Ivy in rows. The villagers are gathered behind them, hands clasped and heads bowed in reverence. Arlo directs Delle with gentle gestures to the end of the front row of servants, indicating she should kneel beside the last servant there.

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