Sweeter Than Sin

by Amelia Wilde

  Runaway whore causes something like a hot flash and I take a lengthy drink of wine to hide it. “Yes, well. Time was of the essence.”

  He’s watching, assessing. I loathe when he does this. Unfortunately, he knows that about me. After all these years, his eyes are still unsettling. “Too lazy to keep track of your own property, then?”

  “She’s not property.” Fuck. Mistake.

  “You said as much to her when we arrived,” he counters. “A debt, then.” Hades sits back in his seat. “Unless it’s worse than that.”

  I laugh. “Asset recovery is just business.”

  “Is her pussy just business, too? There are rumors in your household, you know. Rumors that you’re a man possessed. That you’re going to fuck all the worth out of her before she gets her payout. That you already have.” Now it’s his turn to laugh. “You’ve got to stop falling in love with the prostitutes. They don’t love you back.”

  My wine is the first thing to fly off the table when I move, hitting the floor and tipping over as silently as wine can on carpet. Hades is ready for me, as we are not outside and I have so courteously adjusted the lights for him. He’s on his feet by the time I get my hands in the front of his jacket, ready to break his nose, the bones in his cheeks, anything. All of him. Anger is boiling oil, sliding over every one of my bones, sinking in deep.

  I could kill him.

  Right now.

  9

  Zeus

  “I can’t leave the two of you alone for five minutes,” says Persephone. She’s framed in the door with Conor by her side, the dog looking absurdly huge next to her petite frame.

  She crosses to the table as if Hades is not grinning at me suicidally and I am not poised to wreck him. Honestly, I think he likes a good fistfight. It gives him a source of pain other than his own head. Persephone touches his elbow, then rises on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Could you not?”

  He nods down at my hand, fisted in his jacket. “I haven’t done a thing,” he says mildly.

  Then she turns her gaze on me. It’s so like Demeter’s that it sends a shiver rushing down my spine to the back of my ankles. “No fighting at dinner. I killed a man for you today.”

  I let go of Hades and straighten my own clothes, then call for a waiter to bring a third chair. Persephone accepts, then orders a bowl of soup. When it arrives we eat in silence.

  “My mother is in the city, isn’t she?” she says into that silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. The dog pads over and curls up by Hades’ chair, ears up. He’s alert for something. Probably me.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I haven’t been able to locate her.”

  “But she’s been here.”

  Hades bristles. “Why didn’t you say that?”

  “Because she hasn’t been here, in the whorehouse. She got to one of the women. Poisoned tea. The girl gave it to Brigit.”

  It’s the first time I’ve used her name in front of them, and Hades angles his body toward Persephone as if he can stand in front of her while also sitting down at the table. It’s almost endearing, coming from him.

  “I think it’s time we heard what happened between the two of you.” Persephone stirs at her soup. Chicken noodle. “We already know why things have...broken down between her and Hades.”

  Persephone is the answer to that.

  Obviously.

  “What are you talking about?” Hades’ voice has gone flat. “The two of them work together.”

  “Worked together.” I finish my own steak, then pick through the vegetables, which are equally as good. I hire the best in my kitchens. “She’s no longer very cooperative.

  “Tell him,” Persephone prompts.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She pins her gaze to mine. I don’t know what happened to the trembling, crying slip of a thing who I kidnapped for sport not long ago.

  Well—yes I do. It was Hades.

  So it’s him that I address this story to, since Persephone has pieced enough of it together on her own. “Do you recall the day you came to get Persephone?”

  His hand tightens on hers. “Yes.”

  “Then you also recall walking into my building unimpeded by the many security forces I have on the property.”

  “I recall that you were letting her die on one of your whore’s couches.”

  “And was she dead?” I shoot back. “No, she was not. In fact, your little plaything was still safely in my possession, waiting for you. Perhaps you would have preferred that I let Demeter leave with her.”

  Hades growls, his pupils blown out now. Heart rate must be going up. “You allowed her to come here in the first place.”

  “I allowed her to come here so the meeting place would be secure, little brother.”

  “You let Demeter poison Persephone.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I thought she was done with the poisoning. I had her searched on the way in. She hid it in her fingernail polish. She’s crazier than you are. Relax, asshole, there are people guarding the door.”

  He’s got such a tight grip on the table that I’m vaguely worried he’ll crush it, though the furniture here can withstand me. The process of letting his shoulders down is obviously difficult. Dark hate shadows his face. He picks up a fork, then thinks better of it and puts it back down. “I brought your whore back.”

  “You brought my business asset—”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “She’s not—”

  “I can see your fucking face,” Hades spits. “We’re not in broad daylight. I can see you as well as anyone else. You brought Persephone back, I brought your whore. Don’t tell me it meant nothing to you.” He lifts his fork and stabs it in my direction. “Don’t toy with your own people. You know what comes of that.”

  “Toy with them? I’m offended. I provide them with everything they could want or need, including protection from the likes of you.”

  A bitter laugh. “And they believe you when you lie. Everyone sitting at this table knows that you’re the biggest threat in this place.” His lips curls. “Our father made you that way. He was so proud.”

  It’s the exhaustion, I think, that lets him get so far under my skin that I can feel the words scraping at my ribs. It’s the old memories coming back to haunt me. I eat a green bean and rearrange my face into its usual placid expression. My heart races. It’s going to burst, and I’ll die, and fine. Fine. “You know, Hades, it wasn’t just dogs.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You never had a dog.”

  Persephone’s eyes dart back and forth between us, and I can’t stop myself. It’s too fucking late. “He caught me once. Do you know? Ah—you wouldn’t, because you were unconscious at the time.”

  “Caught you doing what? Fucking one of his favorite whores?” There goes another fork. My brother, bless him, feels his own anger in such a physical way.

  “Dragging you out of the sun.” I keep my eyes on his while I finish the wine. The waiter appears as if summoned to fill the glass. “Eleanor couldn’t do it. You were too heavy. Dead. Weight. And there were times, Hades, there were times when it was too late for your dog to help, either. You were quite bruised that day. I think a sunburn would have been too much.”

  Hades’ eyes are black now. “I didn’t ask you to rescue me.”

  “And I didn’t ask him to kill a woman in exchange for it.” Not Katie. Before Katie. Just one of the ones I’d looked at. He’d seen me looking. I never looked at Katie in front of my father, not with anything other than disdain.

  “You shouldn’t have done it.” And I think of him, standing there in the moonlight after Rosie, his face desolate.

  “And yet here we are, having a lovely family meal.”

  My brother’s face is etched in old pain but he forces it back until he’s just looking blankly at his plate, then at me. “And the point of ruining dinner was what, Zeus?”

  “That we can’t go back,�
�� supplies Persephone. Hades’ eyes flick to her face, his brow furrowing. “I’ll throw up all the way back to the mountain. I barely made it here. And we can’t trust the pharmacies.”

  “Listen to her, Hades.” I let the wine swish around in the glass. “Stay here and stay alive. Go out and risk Demeter.”

  Persephone stands up first, pulling Hades with her. His jaw is set, eyes dark. “Our people will help find her,” she offers.

  “No need.”

  She lets out a breath. “How is Brigit?”

  I wave this off. “She’ll be fine. The sooner she can get back on the floor, the better.”

  A graceful nod, and then the two of them leave, the dog following close by.

  I stay in the dining room alone.

  The sun sinks below the horizon.

  In my bedroom, Brigit breathes. Again and again and again.

  10

  Brigit

  I’m asleep for a long time.

  I know it as soon as I wake up, limbs heavy, all of me heavy under the blankets. I work movement up through my toes and my shins and my knees. It’s not an automatic process, waking up. I thought it was wrong. It’s a long time before I can open my eyes. Part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me is afraid that I’ll find myself back in that hotel room, staring at the wall at the beginning of my wedding day.

  Eventually, there are no other options.

  My eyes are bleary. Really, how long have I been asleep? Not long enough to put the space I want between me and that cathedral. Everything after that is hazy, water-soaked, shower-soaked. Were we in the shower? I blink to clear my eyes and find that yes, I can still see, and yes, I am still in Zeus’s bed, and yes, he is here. Deep down, a part of me sighs in relief. He might not have come to the cathedral but he’s close, and that’s all that matters.

  He sits in front of the window, bathed in light from a nearby lamp, an open ledger propped on one knee. He is without question the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and that includes every piece of art and every sunrise and every sunset. He is all the sunrises, and all the sunsets. His bronze hair is just so, hanging down over his forehead, and even the curve of his neck is an ode to strength and grace and cruelty. All of those contradictions, all together. He wears a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark slacks.

  Shoes on.

  It’s the shoes that give me the first shot of adrenaline for the morning. For the day. Or night. I don’t know. Why is he wearing shoes in his own bedroom?

  I push myself up on one elbow for a better look. “Hello, Brigit.” He keeps writing while he says it, not looking at me.

  “Hi.” My voice is raspy, unused. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Just since yesterday. It’s seven in the evening.” He finishes what he’s writing and closes the ledger, and as soon as he turns to face me I wish he hadn’t. He looks distant. Cold. This is nothing like the man who washed my hair for me yesterday and tucked me in this bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired, still.” Maybe I’ll turn over and sink back into my dreams and when I wake up he won’t be this way. This will all be a terrible dream I’ve had in this flawless room, in this big bed that I’m occupying all by myself. “How are you?”

  “Better now that my business is no longer at risk,” he says. My business. What the actual hell. I swallow something sharp and wait. “We have some things to discuss.”

  Sitting up seems like the best way to face this, so I do, only to discover that I am wearing one of his t-shirts. A blanket over it changes nothing about how I feel, but I wrap it tighter around my shoulders and try to visualize being fully dressed. I wish he would come to bed with me instead of sitting there, watching me with a cousin to pity in his golden eyes.

  I can’t stand it.

  “Do we have things to discuss? Because I’m in your bed, and your clothes. Was this an accident?”

  “No, sweetheart.” A short-lived smile. “But it can’t continue.”

  A full-body chill, like a ghost has taken up residence under my skin. “You’re sending me away?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because you want me here.”

  “I want my business to remain intact.”

  I’m fully awake now. They’re sickeningly clear, my memories. The dancing. The cruelty. The way he was last night, when he told me that it was an accident, my uncle getting his hands on me. An accident. That he hadn’t intended it. We’re past business. “I’m not talking about your business.”

  “I’m always talking about my business.” He leans forward and I hate how gorgeous he is while he’s about to break up with me. It’s impossible to break up, since we were never together, but it’s the same knife to my back. “No matter what you thought or felt, there will never be anything between us.”

  I don’t dare look away. My eyelids, already heavy, begin to burn. “What are you saying?”

  “I meant it when I said you were property. A business asset. For that reason you cannot be put at risk. Not when there are still harmful agents in the city.”

  “You mean my father?”

  “I mean your father, and my sister, and any number of people they may have had contact with. It will take some time to guarantee the security here, and in the city.”

  “So that’s your answer, then.” Not for the first time, I want to die. “You don’t want me because I’m just another one of your whores.”

  “Would it be so inaccurate?” Now the smile returns. It’s unshakeable. “If it helps, you can think of it as something separate from you. This is what I am, Brigit. I own the brothel. I sell the women. I take a cut. Who would I be if I fell for every prostitute that walked through the door with a pretty face and decent tits? Not myself. And I’m the person that all of you are depending on. I’m the monster under your beds. Not the knight who saves you.”

  My grip on the blanket is so tight that my fingers lock up. I have to release the hold one knuckle at a time. “I don’t believe that. You own us, yes.” Us. Jesus. “But you’re a person, too. You can have feelings. You can fall in love.”

  “Feelings.” A scornful laugh, one that wounds. “This is commerce. Gold and silver. Black and white. Feelings are irrelevant in a business like this. You know that.”

  “They’re not,” I insist. “That’s why you have rules. That’s why clients can be refused.” This dead, falling feeling is enough to set the words in my mouth free. “Because you care about the women here. You protect them. You protect me. I think this is about something else. I think you’re hurting me because you’re afraid.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Afraid of what?”

  “I think you’re afraid of what happens when there’s more to you than money and selling women. I think you’re afraid of what happens when people see you as a mortal and not just a rich asshole who sits in a room for people to fawn over him. If you’re that desperate for attention, it’s for sale—”

  He moves so fast that my eyes are still tracking the ledger, falling, when he gets to the edge of the bed. Zeus leans over me. Buries his fists in the mattress. A human cage. He’s hot, hotter than I would have thought, and the heat from his body fills the space between us. “I’m not buying attention.”

  Zeus’s attention is a forest fire, the heat licking over my skin. “Yes you are.”

  “I’m buying safety, sweetheart. For you and every other woman in this place.”

  “Safety?” I’m embarrassed at how my voice cracks but there’s nothing to be done. “I watched you whip Savannah until she bled.”

  “And you were so jealous,” he mocks. “I saw it in your eyes.”

  “How is that safety?”

  “She knows her place now.” An answer for everything. Always an answer. “She won’t hurt other people. She won’t hurt you again.”

  “You don’t care about other people,” I say to taunt him. It’s not true. He cares much more than he wants to admit. The women in his employ. His brother.

>   “Don’t I?” He thunders, and I’ve hit a nerve, I have finally done it. “Look around you. What man chooses to spend his life in a place like this with fucking no one, surrounded at every party and completely alone? It’s not for me, you sweet, naive thing, it’s for everyone else. I’m making up for a lifetime of pain and fear and hurt. The things my father did—” He grits his teeth, and for a moment, it’s obvious how lost he is, how gone into the past. A flash of regret scrapes down my back. It’s a rare, terrifying thing to watch him struggle for control. This close up, it’s a beautiful nightmare. “To the women here—”

  I reach up to touch his face because I can’t think of anything else to do. I did this. I woke this rage, and what looks like fear underneath. I pushed him to this.

  It feels good.

  And terrible.

  “It was my fault,” he says, his voice dropping, though we are the only two people in the room and no one can possibly overhear him. “I could have stepped in, but I never did. I wanted to stay alive too much.”

  “I don’t think anyone blames you—”

  “I don’t care about blame.” His arms tense, and I hope feverishly that he’ll hold me, but he keeps his fists pinned to the bed. “I care about bodies. About lives.”

  What he’s saying—what he’s suggesting— “Your father killed women?”

  “Look at me.” I’m already looking, but now I focus on his eyes, the gold streaks in them, the truth there. “And tell me if my father killed women.”

  I run my thumbs over his cheekbones but he won’t relax. Why would he? I’m nothing, and no one, and I have provoked him. “Who was it?”

  He breaks eye contact for the first time, closing his eyes, and my chest throbs. This is what it is to witness all the terrible, dark things about a person, the things that follow them every waking moment. I’ve been so stupid. I believed his illusion. I believed that it was a show, that beneath the perfect smiles and the money-soaked laugh that nothing was complicated for him. Ever, ever. I was wrong.

  “Katie,” he whispers, and then he clears his throat as if he’s ashamed to have whispered. “Katie,” he says again, and it occurs to me that there are no women here named Katie. I haven’t met a single one. I’m close enough to kiss him, but a kiss has never felt so useless. “I fell in love with her when I was twenty.”