Page 65 of Art of Sin

29sacrifice

When I wake up,for a few, disorienting moments I can’t remember where or when I am. Nate sits in a chair beside the unfamiliar bed, his head in his hands. Blinking groggily, I reach for the IV in my arm—there isn’t one. No oxygen in my nose, either. But the scene is eerily familiar.

Years ago, after a particularly hard night on the streets that resulted in a stab wound to my chest, I woke up in the hospital with a collapsed lung and Nate holding my hand. Those were our darkest times, our lives so stained by what we’d lived through—and so recently escaped—that we made horrible, dangerous choices. Nate especially.

Not a hospital. Safe.

My mind clears. The bed is unfamiliar because it’s Gideon’s, the room only glimpsed in passing when he washed the paint off me two nights ago. I vaguely remember falling asleep on the couch last night—very, very late—after sharing a bowl of strawberries and a pint of chocolate gelato. The sheets next to me are rumpled, and I have a dreamlike memory of warm arms.

Nothing seems real.

“Dee.”

My head turns to Nate, who’s watching me with big, hesitant eyes. I scoot into a sitting position, wincing at the pull of overused muscles. The physical pain is accompanied by a barrage of sensory memories that warm my face and elevate the sting between my legs.

Definitely real.

I clear my throat. “Hey, little brother.” My wires cross, jumbling questions. “Where—I mean what, or how—”

Nate takes mercy on me. “Gideon’s in the kitchen frying bacon. I’m here because after your cryptic message to London last night, I called you a billion times when I got off work. Gideon finally called me back from your phone at six this morning. He said you left your purse in the car. Now, are you going to tell me what the fuck is happening?”

His fear permeates the room, my lungs, and dissolves the last of my mental fog. Memory of what I found at my condo last night flashes like neon in my mind. My heartbeat picks up tempo.

Reaching for Nate’s hand, I grip his cold fingers. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t bring my phone inside. I was… a little out of my mind. Something did happen.”

I tell him. No details spared. No emotion whatsoever in my voice. For his sake, my fear is locked in a tiny box and buried deep.

He almost bolts twice—an instinctive panic-response.

Flee.

Flee.

Flee.

I feel it, too, but dimly.

I’m too tired to run again.

“But…” Nate frowns, near tears, trying to understand the impossible.

“I know. I can’t explain it.”

We don’t speak, but our eyes share the same knowledge. We saw his death certificate.

“What does he want?” he whispers.

I close my eyes. Open them. Sadly, nothing changes in the interim. I have no clarity, no words of wisdom.

Just the truth.

“To kill us, probably. He had to have been badly burned. Revenge seems most likely, right? We destroyed his life.”

“He destroyed our lives,” Nate mutters, the words muffled by hands as he rubs his face roughly.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I touch his knee and wait for him to look at me. “Can you go somewhere? Out of town for a while?”

He pales further. “I know that look. No. No. I’m not leaving you.” Jerking to his feet, he begins to pace the bedroom. “I’m calling Dominic. He’ll know what to do.”

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