Page 89 of Art of Sin

39sloth

I spendthe night between Gideon and Finn, our legs crisscrossing, my body cradled. For hours I listen to their deep, even breathing, thinking about nothing—thinking about everything. How the warmth and darkness around me reminds me of my tree-root cave, and of Gideon’s question weeks ago, “You’ve never felt safe, have you?” and Nate’s admonishment, “You’re not a one-woman army, Deirdre.”

They’re both right, but neither fact changes anything.

Even snug between the two men, I’m raw and exposed. There are moments, too, I shiver despite the heat radiating amongst us. Moments I feel like Julep is watching. Waiting to take his pound of flesh. Laughing at my momentary happiness.

Old memories surface, too, of waking up in the middle of the night, my arms around Nate, to find our enemy standing at the foot of the bed. Watching. Reveling in our captivity.

I eventually fall into a heavy sleep and wake sometime later to a tongue between my legs and another sliding into my mouth. In their tender care—their worship—I’m relieved of all thoughts. There is only feeling.

After, they fall asleep again. I slip from the bed and shower in the attached bathroom. Pull on yesterday’s clothes. Pause to breathe through stiffness, soreness, the sting between my legs, the burn of overused skin and tender nipples.

All of it a gift I don’t deserve but will gladly cherish.

Before leaving, I stand in the bedroom doorway to look at them one more time. Finn on his stomach with his arms folded beneath his head, colorful splashes of ink a canvas across his body. There’s something about him that’s alluring even in sleep—something good that calls to my damaged soul.

A call that pales in comparison to that of the man on the other side of the bed.

When my gaze veers to Gideon, a smile tugs my lips. In sleep, his features lack their usual severity but are no less beautiful for it. On his back, one arm draped over his stomach and the other still bracketed around the space where I slept, he looks younger. Peaceful. Happy.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

My heart heavy and swollen, I tiptoe across the loft and down the stairs, opening and closing the front door carefully. Out of the sound-proofed loft, the club’s music thumps a low, sensual beat through the walls.

When I turn around, I find Nate leaning against the opposite wall. My heart leaps, despite the fact I texted him twenty minutes ago to meet me if he could. I want to hug him. Hold him. But instead, I wrap my arms around my middle.

Nate attempts a smile, his eyes haunted in the hallway’s low lighting. “Dee.”

“Hey, little brother. Thanks for meeting me.”

He shrugs. “I was already here. No big deal.”

“How are you?” I ask softly.

He drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenching briefly. “Angry. Fucking scared. Confused.”

Needing to be nearer—driven by the cellular urge to protect him—I cross the hallway and lean beside him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I begin, then blurt the rest before I lose my nerve, “I couldn’t kill him, Nate. I lied to you. This is all my fault.”

The words are bullets ripping through him. He jerks, once, twice.

“What?” A strangled whisper.

In the weeks after Nate and I escaped, I could do little but stand by while my friend succumbed to drug addiction to drown his memories. All the horrible violations of his body and soul, orchestrated by the man I said I killed. It took me almost dying—waking up in that hospital—for him to give up the drugs and seek help.

His shock and betrayal hang thick in the air.

“No—you told me…” he chokes, falls silent.

“It was Marco, at the end. Not that that’s an excuse, but… he was so scared, and I couldn’t do it.” I breathe past the agony. “I wanted to tell you, so many times, but I was afraid—”

“That I’d OD.”

I nod—all the response I’m capable of.

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