Page 14 of Art of Sin

Fuck.

“Fine,” I snap. “But I’m bringing Maggie with me.”

His head dips toward mine. I stand my ground, regretting it when I end up with his mouth millimeters from my cheek.

“Bring whomever you want,” he whispers. “However many you want. I like an audience.”

I recoil, stepping back and sucking in a breath.

“You may be beautiful when you smile, Ms. Moss, but you’re a vision when you’re enraged. Expect me to anger you continuously for the next six months.”

Leaving me to sputter, he walks away.

* * *

When I wasa child and couldn’t sleep because of the noises in the trailer, I would imagine myself encased in the roots of a gigantic tree. Deep in the earth, my cocoon would keep me warm and safe.

There would be no violence, no screaming, no men with scary eyes. Time’s passage wouldn’t affect me—I was timeless and bodiless, one with the slow pulse of water and sap, with the tiny bugs and earthworms.

I imagined the scene so often growing up that in my adult life, it reappears in my dreams. Not often, and only when something happens to make me feel unsafe. Something that draws that young, frightened version of me to the surface.

Tossing and turning in my bed that night, the timbre of Gideon’s parting words in my ears, I have the dream. But this time—for the first time—I’m not alone.

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