Page 29 of Our Sins in Silver (Coven of Sin 3)

Immune to time.

As moldable as lukewarm water and as shatterable as molten silver.

A king in his own right, forced to wear the shadow of his master as his mantle and the weight of his position as the king’s mate for his crown.

Vampires everywhere feared and respected the silver prince in equal proportions. They didn’t see the wounded man beneath the armor or the scars that ran deep into his beautiful, pure soul.

Sterling reminded me of a documentary I’d seen once on Japanese pottery. They took shattered pieces of pottery and fused the shards back together with gold, with the belief that embracing flaws and imperfections made for a stronger, more beautiful piece of art.

My priest didn’t view the scars he carried on his heart as beautiful. He buried them deep inside himself like a secret.

I saw his gold paint and how it gleamed and glittered, even beneath his armor. My monster had seen it from the first moment we’d met in the tower.

With marble-smooth skin fresh from the shower, peppered in drops of water and wrapped in nothing but a towel, he’d been the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. But it wasn’t his ethereal, statuesque masculinity that had pulled me to the surface for the very first time. It wasn’t even the way he grinned at me when he registered his copy ofHarry Potter and The Half-Blood Princein my hand or how the magic on his lips made my body pulse and tingle.

What had my inner queen thirsty enough to shove my delicate human sensibilities to the curb that night was the scars.

The gold paint holding his pieces together.

I just hadn’t understood it at the time.

Now that I had a better understanding of the chaos inside me, I was starting to get how that part of me worked and how I’d seen Sterling for the capable mate he was. My primal side understood that a male’s battle scars were just proof of prowess.

Because the soft ones never survived long enough for their wounds to turn to scars.

For my monster, standing by the eldest Knight prince’s side as his mate, just as unyielding, was an honor and a privilege she coveted.

And Sterling didn’t know it. He had no goddamn idea. Of all his infinite knowledge, the fallen priest seemed to tuck away his wounds as if they were horrible disfigurements he was too ashamed to let anyone see.

That’s why I needed to complete the mating bond. Sure, there was the matter of lifting the stain of Thomas Knight from Sterling, so we could make the connection between us all our own. But it went way beyond that.

The urge to carry Sterling’s mark as his claimed mate was a gut-wrenching, soul-deep mission given to me by forces I couldn’t even begin to understand.

With his claim on my throat, he’d finally feel me—see the hidden parts of me just like I could see his. Maybe then he’d finally understand that in his darkest moments when he withdrew inside himself to mourn the man he’d been before Thomas Knight, I’d be there. I’d be there to glorify and love and worship the man he’d become in spite of daddy dearest.

Whether it was standing tall by Sterling’s side with our armor on—facing the vampire king one last time, together—or holding my mate in the dark of the library in his weakest moments to wipe his tears...I’d be there.

Whatever the moment. Whatever the scenario.

Julian Godfrey would never have to be alone ever again.

When I arrived at the east end of the manor and stood before the library door, I found myself frozen with my gaze centered on the handle.

I could barely think with my thoughts pulverized under the ruthless hammer of my heart.

I placed my palms flat on the door and rested my forehead against the wooden veneer that marked the

entrance to Sterling’s domain.

Eros had been right to make the other guys wait for me to wake Sterling so that I could be the one to deliver the news. It had to be me. But how? How was I going to even find the words? If I managed that, there was the next insurmountable task of looking him in the eye as I said them and watching his old wounds rip open. I’d be powerless to do anything in that moment but hold him together as he crumbled, letting him bleed as much as he needed before piecing him back together again with his gold paint and his silver pieces.

“Good evening, Princess,” a voice singsonged, making me jump. I whirled around, my eyes wild and my heart tapping at fingers where they clutched my breast.

“Isa.”

Before me stood the coven’s ball of sunshine and resident witch.

Isa wore a fluffy, yellow bathrobe embroidered with purple hearts on the front. She had a green clay mask on her face like those I’d seen a million times in movies. Her hair was piled into a messy bun atop her head, and she had a magazine tucked under her arm with a steaming mug clutched between her french-tipped fingers. I knew it was filled with warm blood by the metallic aroma tingeing the air.

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