Page 56 of Saints & Sinners

A faint noise outside my door broke the stillness, and I slid out of bed, moving quietly toward the hallway. When I reached the kitchen, I found Grace searching through the cupboards like she was trying to rob the place.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as I watched her. “If you’re looking for the last packet of biscuits, let me save you time. Brandon ate them.”

She spun around, hand on her chest, looking startled. I bit back a grin at the annoyance flashing in her eyes when she realized it was me. “Ever heard of announcing your presence instead of scaring someone half to death?”

“Didn’t know I needed to. You’re the one raiding the kitchen inthe middle of the night.”

She shook her head, turning back around and sighing as she searched the top cupboard.

“Looking for something specific?” I asked, taking a step toward her.

“Hot chocolate,” she muttered, sounding almost defeated.

I neared her until my front was touching her back, and she tensed. Reaching above her, I slowly grabbed the tub of cocoa powder she hadn’t seen and placed it in front of her. My hand lingered against the counter for a few seconds, and I heard her breathing pick up.

She whispered, “Thank you.”

I shook my head, taking a step back as she turned. She looked tired, her usual fire dimmed. For some reason, I wanted to see it come back.

Clearing my throat, I walked toward the fridge and grabbed the milk. “Didn’t Joe ever teach you where he kept this stuff?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But he used to make it for me whenever I couldn’t sleep. He’d sit with me, listening to me ramble about whatever was bothering me until I fell asleep with the hot chocolate in my hands.”

As I warmed the milk up, I glanced at her. “So, you kept him up too, huh? Nice habit you’ve got going on there, Bambi.”

She rolled her eyes, but I caught a glimpse of a smile. “Do you always have to be so sarcastic, hm... huntsman?”

“Only when it’s this easy to rile you up.” I smiled.

She came by with the cocoa powder, and I grabbed two mugs for her. Before we settled at the counter, she stirred the powder and milk into her cup while I did mine. Silence stretched between us, and I watched her take a sip. My eyes went to her mouth as she licked her lower lip, and something inside of me almost shattered.

She wasn’t mine to touch. Wasn’t mine to want. But then whythe hell couldn’t I stop staring at her lips?

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look at her actual face, not her lips, not the way her curls cloaked her features and not the way she swallowed each drop of hot chocolate. “So... what’s the real reason you’re up so late?”

She tilted her head, eyeing me like she was trying to decide whether to answer me or not. “You’re up too.”

“I asked first.”

Her gaze dropped to the mug, her fingers curling around it. “I keep having nightmares,” she said, her voice so soft, I had to lean closer to catch it. “About Lucas, about what happened. About... demons.”

I felt my chest tighten. I knew what it was like to carry that kind of loss, the way it clawed at you when no one was around. The choices you would make just to stop yourself from going insane.

“Can I ask you a question?” she murmured, her eyes still on the mug.

I knew if I said no, she would likely ask me either way.

“Sure,” I whispered, and she hesitated, her brows knitting together as though she was searching for the right words. Finally, she looked up at me.

“What does it mean exactly for someone to be corrupted?”

The question stopped me cold, like all the air had been knocked out of my lungs.

My hand clenched around the mug, so hard it cracked. I dropped it onto the table, as hot chocolate started to slowly spill from the gaps. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I want to understand,” she said as I grabbed at tea towels and wiped down the surface. “No one talks about it—I mean, not really. But I want to know more, not just from what they teach us in angelic history lessons or what Joe tells me. I just...” she faltered, shaking her head.

“Grace,” I started, but she cut me off.

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