Page 25 of Be My Sinner

As I step closer, a wretched sob breaks free from my lips uncontrollably at the sight before me. His casket is open for viewing, but I can’t bring myself to look at the features I once loved and cherished more than anything else on this earth. Features I hadn’t been allowed to see in person for years, thanks to the Brotherhood’s orders.

A petite figure draped in black fabric kneels before his casket. The agony of her pain echoes in every sob that escapes from her trembling form. The sound is so wretched that it threatens to make my knees buckle. Like me, she is covered from head to toe in shapeless black. I make my way to her side, my hand trembling as I reach for her shoulder. She doesn’t feel real, even though I know she kneels before me. It’s been so many years since I last stood next to her, since I was allowed even to hear her voice.

As a damned woman, she was not allowed to speak to a Sacred Daughter, not even her own. They sent me away, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her. To tell her I understood everything she had suffered, and that I would one day avenge her.

The Order must really be feeling charitable, or perhaps it’s the need for this charade to hide the truth that they killed my brother. They allowed my mother to wear black mourning attire rather than the forced red. I lower my eyes to her face, covered by a less opaque version of my own veil, and her bright blue eyes mirror back at me with despair and horror.

I take in the rest of her as she stands up. She appears smaller and more fragile since I last saw her, as if a strong wind could shatter and whisk her away. The way her body hunches in on itself draws attention to her newfound slender frame. Gone are the curves she once had, the ones like my own that made her attractive to the parasites of the Brotherhood, and my traitorous father. They have managed to destroy all that she was. All the sparks and beauty that once resided inside her are long gone, withered away. She is but a shell of the woman I grew up with and knew.

“Dinah…may the Lord…bless and praise you. The Brotherhood…honor you and keep you sacred.”

“It is right to give thanks to the Lord, my God, and to the Brotherhood which keeps its order.” The words leave my lips in an automatic response that leaves a sour taste behind in their wake.

Just then, a commotion behind us has our eyes parting from our mutual gaze and our bodies turning around, to stare at the two large figures entering the chapel. One has a tight grip on the other’s arm as they stumble down the aisle toward us. What. The. Fuck.

“Bloody hell, Abraham! Not even on this day could you behave like the gentleman I have raised you to be.” Peter’s harsh voice rings out as he walks quickly from the side aisle towards his son.

The wrath on his face is palpable; he’s not even attempting to disguise his disdain for his only offspring. The one currently swaying on his feet, with his clothes disheveled, his robe barely hanging on to his frame, and his eyes bloodshot. The smell of alcohol is so strong that it makes its way down the aisle to where my mother and I are standing, transfixed by the sight before us. Did he fucking bathe in that shit? My lip curls in disgust at the sight before me.

“Gentleman? Is that what you thought you were raising?” A scowl crosses Abraham’s whiskered face.

A face I haven’t seen in six years, since I was barely a teenager. I’m taken aback by the way his face has changed. Gone are the boyish good looks and the sparkling, mischievous amber eyes, and in their place is a hardness I don’t recognize.

He’s so large now, his presence menacing as he attempts to stand there. He was always tall, but now he seems a giant, even towering over his father’s impressive height. His body went from that of a gangly, slim teenage male with long, skinny, uncoordinated limbs to that of a broad, muscular man.

Even in his disorganized attire, I can see how he fills out the fine, expensive black fabrics. His hair is a mess of brown, wavy locks that fall across his forehead. Tattoos peek from underneath his black dress shirt collar and up his neck, until they meet his impressive square jawline. I can see more of them decorating his forearms, where his rolled-up shirt does nothing to disguise their placement.

I wonder if he’s covered everywhere else between his neck and arms. The random thought has me biting my lip hard with annoyance at my curiosity. It doesn’t matter if he’s covered or not. He could be responsible for Gabriel’s death.

My eyes shift slowly over the figure bracing Abraham and keeping him standing. Bright emerald green eyes, framed by long, dark, thick lashes, stare in my direction. Their intensity and undisguised rage make me want to squirm in the awful dress I’m wearing.

Ezekiel.

He stares back at me with an unreadable expression. His facial expressions masked from those watching him. He was always the more controlled of the two. I see some things don’t change. His features have also evolved since I last saw them. They are more manly and menacing now.

A dark five o’clock shadow graces his golden skin and encases a pair of pouty, thick, pink lips that are in a straight, rigid line. His high cheekbones somehow give a slight femininity to a rugged appearance. He’s tall, over six feet, yet not as tall as Abraham, but maybe an inch or two shorter. His size can be perceived as imposing to the other men in the room. Not to me, however, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and the slower they die.

His clothes aren’t in the same haphazard condition as Abraham’s, but they’re not much better. His body filled out over the years too. Gone are the gangly shoulders I used to ride on as a child; now, they are wide and filled with muscle. The top two buttons of his black dress shirt are open, and I spy black swirls below them, meeting his thick neck with a design I can’t make out from here. The hands that hold on to Abraham with force are covered in tattoos, each finger decorated in black ink. His dark hair is neat and closely cropped to his scalp, with longer pieces in the front and top. I’m not sure if it’s a trick of the light, but his scalp might also be sporting a tattoo under his hair. My eyes crave a closer look, but I hold myself firm.

He’s breathtaking.

He’s my Ezekiel, but also someone completely different. Gone is the boy who was kind to me, the one I had a crush on for so many years, and in his place is an angry, large man. A man who is currently looking at me with hate blaring in his eyes. I’m so taken aback by the ferocity in their bright green depths that I take a step back without meaning to. The corner of his lip curls at my actions, and the sight makes me fist my hands tightly. Fucker.

“What is the meaning of this, Ezekiel? You were to keep him on a tight leash. This is a goddamn funeral for a member of the Brotherhood, not some party at the House of Brothers. Why is he not sober?” Noah rounds on his son, taking him to task for their inebriated and disheveled state. His nostrils flare, and a red tinge crosses his features with frustration and, no doubt, embarrassment. Personally, I’m loving the humiliation they’re inflicting on their high-ranking fathers.

“Always such a pleasure to be in your presence, Father,” he snickers, the word ‘Father’ leaving his lips with obvious distaste.

“We are fully aware that we are here for a funeral. He was one of our best friends, or have you forgotten that?” Abraham is demonstrating his grief. “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” He quotes scripture to his father’s face like a man with a death wish, with a smirk across his lips.

“Ah fuck, don’t forget this one; it always makes me feel better. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I’m not feeling very blessed or comforted. What about you, Zeke?” Abraham snorts as he tries to pry Ezekiel’s firm grip from his arm.

“Enough of this nonsense! The two of you will pay your respects to his sister and mother, and sit down and stop making a spectacle of yourselves, before the Holy Father arrives to proceed over the mass.”

A zing of electricity zaps me at Noah’s words, forcing me to disguise my reaction. Hmmm, the Holy Father is proceeding over the mass. Interesting. I wasn’t sure he would. I didn’t know my brother was high enough on the food chain to demand his presence at his funeral mass.

I don’t know who he is. In fact, very few know the true identity of the Holy Father. He wears a white and gold mask whenever he is in public—only making appearances a few times a year, and only for the truly most important events and people. I’ve always wondered if such clandestine actions were needed because of privacy, fear, attempts on his life, or just dramatics.

My eyes meet Sammy’s from across the room, where he is now standing against the wall with the other guards in attendance. His expression never changes, but it doesn’t have to. If Sammy can read my mind, I can also read his. He’s just as confused and intrigued as I am by the announcement of who is presiding over the mass.

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