Page 167 of Penance

“But you haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Daddy said we’re going to the park.”

“Daddy said we’re going to the parkafter lunch,” I correct him, absentmindedly twisting the ring on my finger.

I told Draco it was too big, too clunky.

He insisted on getting me the most expensive one.

It’s obnoxious, laid with blood-red stones set in an ornately carved rose gold band. Still, I love it, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

“So Ihaveto eat it?” Damien whines.

I chuckle.

“Don’t talk to your mom like that.”

A deep voice sounds from the entryway, and I turn around to see him in the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe, staring in at us. His voice is smooth as aged whiskey, dark and burning. His suit is charcoal today, impeccably tailored to his broad shoulders and thick biceps. No tie—he rarely wears one at home—and the top buttons of his crisp black shirt are undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and the edge of one of his many tattoos.

I can’t deny that he’s beautiful, in the way fallen angels are beautiful in the old paintings—terrible and glorious and damned.

“You’re home early,” I say.

His lips curve into a warm smile.

“I am,” he says. “The meeting was pretty quick, and I’d rather be at home with both of you.”

He’s talking about the job he got after I had Damien. The job he didn’t need, because we don’t need the money, but he got anyway to teach our son by example.

He steps into the kitchen, dress shoes clicking against the hardwood. The pentagram tattooed on the back of his right hand catches my attention. I’ve caught him tracing it sometimes, inmoments when he thinks no one is watching, whispering to it. I wonder what it means, but it doesn’t bother me anymore.

We all have our vices.

Damien scrambles to his feet, clutching his favorite car to his chest as he rockets across the room.

“Daddy!” he shrieks.

Draco’s expression softens almost instantly as he looks down at our son.

“Hey buddy!” he says, crouching down as Damien throws himself into his arms. “Helpin’ mom in the kitchen?”

Damien nods.

I snort.

Right.

Helping.

Draco reaches into his pocket and pulls a small wooden figure—a knight or soldier of some kind. Damien’s eye’s light up when he see’s it.

“Found this for you. From the antique shop right next to the office. The owner said it was over a hundred years old.”

“Wow!”

Damien is like his father in a lot of ways.

He has a taste for the macabre, the ancient texts in Draco’s books. They are almost the same person, in all ways but one.

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