Page 42 of Sinners Atone
“Please.” My plea is as thin as water, and my face is about to be just as wet.
Her expression changes, flickering with confusion, then softens. “He’s not as scary as he looks, I promise.”
He’s not as scary as he looks.That’s what Rafe said. Castiel said it to me earlier too when he caught me staring. It’s as though all the Viscontis are reading from the same script and feeding the lie out to the rest of the coast like some sort of propaganda machine.
Out of the corner of my eye, Gabriel steps into the light of the dance floor. He’s a storm cloud, black and turbulent. A face like thunder. When Rafe mutters something in his ear, his lightning-bolt glare finds me and strikes.
My muscles seize up. Heisas scary as he looks—he’s proved it. And judging by his expression, he wants to dance with me as much as I want to dance with him.
Tayce takes advantage of the distraction and hauls me to my feet with a sharp tug on my hand.
No.
The ground is moving underneath me. Dresses and suits pass in a blur, then fade into the corners. My heels scrape across the floor, Tayce’s hair swishes with determination, and now he’s in front of me.
“Dance,” Tayce commands.
She pats me on the shoulder.
Then she leaves me alone with the Boogeyman.
Though you could park a car in the gap between us, his presence scorches me like a black flame. Every cell in my body is hyperaware of him, of what he might do and what he’s already done. Cave-dwelling monster or not, men don’t find themselves bleeding out at midnight on a lonely road by being nice.
Seeking relief, I stare at my shoes, wondering if I click my heels three times, maybe I’ll suddenly teleport back home. I swear I’ll lock the door this time. Wedge every bit of furniture against it too.
The band descends into song. It’s “I’m in the Mood for Dancing,”and the lively beat warps into something sinister in the space between my ears. The heat in front of me grows hotter. A cold sweat pools at the back of my collar, and I smooth my bangs with a trembling hand.
With a strangled breath, I drag my gaze upward.
It trails up the sharp crease of his pants, then the buttons of his shirt. The irony twists my gut; he doesn’t fool me. A well-cut suit could never make this man a gentleman. It’s as though he’s wearing another man’s skin, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ripped it from his bones with his bare hands.
A shiver ghosts through me, and I can’t bring myself to look any higher. I seek relief by scouting for Rory and Angelo instead, but they’re nowhere to be seen. So I look to Tayce and Rafe across the dance floor. They’re both dancing for someone else: Tayce is eye-fucking her mark on the sidelines, and Rafe, well, I don’t know who he’s looking for. His face is sullen and taut, and he’s scanning the treeline obsessively.
Tayce catches my eye over his shoulder and mouths,Dance.
Ugh. I’m going to hold this over her head for at least a week.
Gritting my teeth, I turn back around to Gabriel and meet his glare. Cold, expressionless. How can someone look so bored and so terrifying at the same time?
He’s not dancing, of course. He’s not even moving. He just shifts his gaze to a space above my head, and with a clenched jaw, scans the space between the trees.
Okay. Deep breath. The average song is only a couple of minutes long. Around the same time it takes to brush my teeth or fill in my eyebrows. I can do that. Resting my gaze on his thick neck and the loose bowtie around it, I force my feet into a tight two-step and pray the band isn’t playing some extended-cut version.
One step, two. One, two.
By the first chorus, my mind drifts from the count, and irritation nibbles the edges of my fear. Why is he just standingthere looking at everything but me? Sure, it’s not the rudest thing he’s done, but with me being sonice, I’m not used torude,and my brain can’t figure out how to process it.
Maybe he’s one of those sadists who gets off on making girls uncomfortable. Like the trench coat flasher who hangs around in the alleyways of Main Street. He wouldn’t do this to a man his own size—if those men even exist.
My steps become stomps, and my fist tightens around the strap of my clutch. That irritation burns into anger and bubbles up the trunk of my throat.
My eyes snap upward. “You know, I try to see the best in people, but with you, I really have to squint.”
“Don’t squint too hard. I’ll take your eyeballs too.”
His reply is a reflex; it’s easy and even and doesn’t miss a beat or interrupt his scanning of our surroundings.
My jaw drops open, and I stop the two-stepping. How can I dance at a time like this, with a man like this? He’s unrecognizable. He’s not the man I comforted as his blood ruined my dress. Not the man who used one of his last breaths to laugh, or to call me beautiful.
