Page 83 of Art of Sin

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. You inspired the greatest art of my life. It’ll probably be the height of my career. All downhill from here.”

I press both hands to my stomach, holding back a rising sob. “There’s nothing I can say, but I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Gideon. So sorry. You were… are… the best thing that has happened in my life since Nate. I’m not sure I was alive at all until I met you. You shocked my system, my entire world.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t react. “In case you have even a sliver of doubt, I’ll never share what you told me in confidence last night,” he says mutedly. “You didn’t give me a chance to say it, but I’m grateful you trusted me enough to tell me the truth. And I’m glad you killed that motherfucker. I know you think that makes you a monster, but it doesn’t. It makes you brave and right.”

Not yet, I want to tell him, but I hope it will.

I think back to those first hours of freedom, Nate and I stumbling along a dark road until we saw a gas station. Using the payphone to dial 911 while Nate was in the bathroom.

“There’s a man locked in a shed outside a burning house.”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know. About two miles from this payphone. The man is sick. Mentally. He thinks he’s two people. Marco is the good version and Julep is a psycho rapist and child kidnapper. He needs psychiatric help. Can you do that?”

“Miss, what’s your name?”

Nate rounds the corner of the gas station, his brows lifting when he sees me on the phone.

I hang up and shrug. “It rang, so I answered. No one was there.”

One sin to trump them all—letting him live. There’s probably an explanation. Some psychological reasoning. A twisted case of Stockholm syndrome? Too many lectures from Mama about my wrongness from birth leading to a desire to be better—different—than the man who tried to kill me?

Whatever the case, it means nothing now.

“If tonight is your last night with me, I want something from you.”

I focus on Gideon, on the beauty and wildness that unlocked both my dreams and nightmares.

“Anything,” I whisper.

A pregnant pause. “Are you sure about that?”

I frown. “Why?”

He stands, dwarfing me. His eyes are shadowed. Dangerous and glinting. And his body vibrates with a familiar tension that makes my own skin buzz and my body ache with want.

“I want your trust, mon bijou. One last time. In return, I’ll give you a gift.”

“What?” I breathe.

His head lowers, mouth grazing my cheek.

“A memory of sin.”

In an instant, I know what he’s referring to. My breath hitches, a gasp escaping. My heart trips. Hammers.

Do I want this?

My body answers with an unequivocal Yes,while my head and heart go to war.

“Yes or no, Deirdre?”

Hearing the mingled pain and desire in his voice, I draw back to touch his face. The pads of my fingers memorize his silky skin, the roughness of stubble. His eyes closed, he turns to press a kiss to my palm.

I swallow another wave of misery.

“Why?”

How can you want me after knowing the truth?

His sigh is warm against my fingers. “I won’t lie, it’s going to hurt to share you. But above all I want you to feel your power. To feel worthy of worship. Because you are.”

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