He closed his eyes, and his throat clogged. “Saying it aloud will make it all the more real.”
Her arms closed around him, and she slid onto his lap. He held her close, taking in her vitality. And she warmed him, using her power of fire to send out luxuriant waves of heat. For his benefit, as if she knew perfectly well how very cold he was.
“It is cancer, Miranda.”
She stilled. And then a shudder wracked her frame. “No.” Heat swirled around them, the fire crackling and snapping in the grate. “No, Ben.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’m so very sorry, Miri.”
She started to cry, not the pretty, quiet weeping of a gentlewoman, but great heaving sobs. It ripped his guts out to hear it, and he gathered her as close as he could.
“Ben, I can’t . . . I cannot live this life without you.”
His heart stilled, and he cupped her damp cheek to tilt her face up. Her green eyes were luminous with tears. Gently he kissed the corner of each eye, his thumb wiping each drop. But they would not abate. “Miranda,” he whispered. “My love. My heart. You are so very strong. So young—”
“Do not dare imply that I will get over you,” she cut in fiercely. “Or so help me, Archer, I will . . . I will . . .” Her expression crumpled, and she sobbed once more, pressing her cheek against his as her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “If I was the one ailing, the one who . . .” She swallowed hard, as if she could not say the words. “What would you do?”
He kissed her lips fierce and quick. “I would want to die with you.” He hated those words. Hated death. “But, Miri, you will live on.” Archer gave her shoulders a small shake. “You will. It is the only thing keeping me sane, the thought that your life remains.”
She kissed him back just as fiercely, just as quickly. When she drew away, her gaze was brilliant green and irate. “I do not want to argue with you. But this isn’t over.”
He had to smile. He’d fallen in love with her sharp wit and cunning mind. His kiss was softer now, lingering. “We can do other things.” Sadly, he was too weak for much, and she knew this well. It had been weeks since he’d taken her. Or she him.
Miranda, however, nuzzled close. “Come to bed, I shall take very good care of you.”
His blood heated. “Of that I have no doubt. However, we’ve received a note from your brother.” Her soft body tightened. Archer spoke over the protests he knew were coming. “St. John asked for your presence. He would not do so if he wasn’t in need. I will not turn my back on him, and neither will you. Not anymore.”
Miranda met his gaze. “Well, your penchant for tossing about orders hasn’t diminished in the least.”
“We were the ones to find him in Ireland. We were closest to him. I am ashamed of our unwillingness to give him another chance.”
She looked away, her chin lifting. Archer took hold of it and turned her back to face him. “Miri, he is your family. I want that for you. At the very least, let us go to him and hear what he has to say.”
She relented with a sigh. “I miss him, Archer. I do. But I find it hard to trust my family after all the lies they’ve told over the years.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I know, love. But Sin is a good lad at heart. It will hurt you more if you do not go to him.”
Miranda let out an unsteady breath. “Then let us go.” She moved to rise but stopped and cupped his cheek. “Archer, I . . .” Her teeth came down hard on her lower lip.
He pressed his hand against hers. “I know, love. I know.” After all, what was there to say? Death paused for no man.
Chapter Eighteen
Sin had shut himself off again. That much was clear. After bringing her to Evernight House in the early hours of the morning, Sin did not kiss her again. No, he hustled her off to bed, for which she was grateful. After all, she was dead on her feet and needed the rest. But he’d withdrawn. True, he’d returned to her as promised.
Layla had fallen asleep almost the instant her head had hit the pillow. But she’d awakened when he returned. Sin hadn’t said a word as he crawled onto the bed, staying over the covers and spooning himself behind her. It was clear he thought her asleep, and she wasn’t inclined to dissuade him of the notion, not when he seemed so on edge.
What she had wanted to do was turn and demand more kisses. But she rather feared he’d bolt if she did. So she’d let herself lean into his solid warmth and slept once more.
A few hours later, when she’d reawakened, he brought her some gowns. “Holly hasn’t left much, and I’ll admit this only to you. She is an atrocious dresser.”
“Sin, you cannot say that about a lady. It’s rude.”
“She’s not a lady. She’s my cousin, and I’m certain she’d agree. But you’re in the right.” He flashed a grin. “I would not dare tell her.”
She lifted a plain brown house dress up for inspection. All right, the gowns weren’t inspired, but they were of good quality.
“I’m afraid her . . . er . . . underthings might not fit you.” He’d gone pink at the tips of his ears. And she wanted to kiss him for it.
But he was correct in that as well. Holly Evernight’s corset did not fit Layla’s shorter torso. So she did without, which felt wonderfully freeing and slightly erotic. With the lack of a corset to hold her breasts in place, they gently swayed with each step she took, brushing her nipples against the soft lawn of her chemise. It was altogether too decadent. And yet she reveled in it, wanting to feel this way. Wanting to experience more touching with Sin.
After dressing, Layla ventured into the massive house, calling Sin’s name. She found him in the kitchens, stirring a pot of oats. She had to grin. Sin had hated oats as a boy and so had she.
“You don’t expect me to eat that lumpy mess, do you?” she said to him.
Sin gave her a stern look. “You’ll eat your oats, young lady. How else shall you grow strong and tall?”
“On apple tarts and sweet buns?”
His dark brow quirked. “I’ll add in honey and dried fruit but no more.”
It was the only way she’d ever eat the otherwise bland porridge and he knew it. Layla got the bowl and spoons. They ate in silence. And when she did not engage him in conversation, Sin grew quiet, his expression drawn inward.
“What shall we do?” she asked him.
He stirred, seemingly pulling himself out of whatever place he’d gone. “I cannot find Augustus.” He glanced at her, clearly seeing Layla’s confusion. “Augustus and I are connected by thought. If I relax and seek him out, I can hear him. I haven’t been able to do that since he left. Whether this is due to his will or some other reason, I cannot say.”
“And St. Claire?”
Sin’s green gaze flickered silver. “I can fight him, Layla, but I cannot guarantee that I will win.” He pushed his bowl away. “In the days of old, there were many of us. Judgment and Damnation both. From what Augustus told me, there were great battles between, cities leveled in the process, the people’s stories lost to time. They were equally matched, you see. One by one Judgment and Damnation fell, until there were only Augustus and the fallen who’d created Damnation. He went by many names, but Augustus called him Cain.”
“As in the Cain of biblical lore?”
“The very one. Though Augustus swears he’s older.” Sin worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “Augustus created me—”
“How?”
He winced. “I’ve sworn an oath not to say, Layla. All you really need know is that it can be done. Damnation, however, are either born of Cain’s sons breeding with humans or created straight from Cain. The difference being their wings. Did you see St. Claire’s?”
“They were like yours, only black.”
“Aye. Only one straight from Cain would have wings shaped as such. Others’ are like that of a bat’s.” He sighed, his broad shoulders sagging. “Those originals were supposed to be gone, killed off in the wars. They are powerful, Layla. More
than I am as a fledgling Judgment.”
A chill worked over her skin, and she rubbed her arms. “Then we go into hiding.”
His smile was tilted. “He will find us. In truth, I believe he’s been tracking both of us all along.”
“How?”
“I do not know. But he is the lord those demons were referring to in the alleyway, I’m sure of it. Damnation has the ability to put thoughts into another’s mind. He’s been talking to me. And laughing at you.”
The cold within her grew, enough to make her shiver. “What has he been saying to you?”
Sin’s gaze slid away. “Speaking of my secret desires. Of blood and death. Of destroying those who hurt me, and those whom I’ve never met.”
As if he was disgusted with himself, he shoved away from the table and turned his back on her. Head ducked, hands low on his hips, he breathed deep and slow.
Layla stood as well, the porridge now leaden in her belly. “Saint, you think of those things?” She didn’t mean it as an accusation, but he stiffened at her question.
His voice was low and rough when he spoke. “Yes, Layla. I think of that and worse. When I close my eyes at night, I dream of violence, of doing . . . unspeakable things. He plucked the thoughts from my mind and thrust them back in my face. He knows.”
Slowly, she walked to him and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. Sin flinched, his shoulders so tense she thought he might tear away from her. But he held still, and she let the weight of her hand sink more firmly onto his flesh, giving him that connection. “I think of those things too.”
Her small voice seemed to fill the hollow silence. Sin turned. His expression was blank, all that perfect male beauty held in complete control. “Who hurt you, Layla?”
She had an idea that Sin would lay her enemies to waste. But she shook her head. “No one. Ever.” Her grip on his shoulder tightened. “And yet the thoughts are there all the same. On the ship over, I stood at the rail next to a couple. We were staring out at the rolling sea, and the urge hit me like a wave that I should throw them both overboard. It was so strong that I had to grip the railing to keep myself still.”
She took a ragged breath, her darkest confession leaving a hole of emptiness in her chest. “Does that make me evil?”
His hands cupped her cheeks. “I see your soul, Layla, and it is luminous. It glows with goodness.”
Layla placed a shaking hand to his. “And do you see the darkness there too, Sin? Truth?”
His black brows furrowed, but he stared into her eyes. A tremor went through him. “Aye,” he croaked. “I see glints of it. Smoke over diamonds.”
That he told her the truth had her taking a relieved breath. “I think . . .” She bit her lip then forged on. “I think we hold both within us. Light and dark. Augustus once said the world was about balance and how we chose to live would determine our course.”
“Yes.” His sighed and leaned his forehead against hers. “The choice.”
“You’ve chosen to live in the light, St. John. And those dark thoughts? What can they do to you? Nothing. Because your will is stronger. It always has been.”
His sharp breath sounded tortured. “Layla, why do you always see the good in me when others only see the bad?”
“Augustus didn’t. He chose you to be his champion.” She tried to smile but her heart was too battered now. Her fingertips grazed his temple. “And I will always see the good in you, Sin, because I cannot do anything less. You have always been the happiness in my life.”
A groan left him, and he closed his eyes tight. “And you are mine.”
“Then kiss me,” she whispered.
It was as if she struck him. Sin jerked his head back, his hands falling from her as if she were flames. He backed away a step, his eyes pained. “What happened last night . . . You were frightened.”
She blinked at him, a hard, hot pressure building behind her ribs. “Are you saying you kissed me out of pity?”
“No.” He scowled. “Never pity. But we were in that small space. And . . .” He ran a hand through his hair, sending the glossy crimson-tipped locks every which way. “I do not know how to make you understand—”
“Oh, I believe I am beginning to.” Mortification washed over her, shrinking her skin over her hot cheeks. “You do not think of me as a man does a woman, is that it?” She choked out a bitter laugh and pressed her knuckles to her cheeks. “You think of me as a sister. You didn’t want to kiss me at all. And there I was, a fool kissing you. Begging for more.”
“Not think of you as a woman?” he repeated, his mouth falling open as if she’d slapped him. “Not want to kiss you? Sod it, Layla. The only woman I have ever wanted to kiss is you. The only woman I have ever kissed is you.”
It was her turn for her mouth to fall open. He stepped closer, his eyes flashing. “From the moment you climbed up my tree and started giving me endless grief, you have been the only one I have ever wanted. First as my playmate, then as the woman I ached to have in my bed.”
“Then . . .” She struggled to breathe. “Then why? Why push me away?”
“Because,” he slashed the air in a helpless gesture, “sometimes what you want is not what you receive. I wanted you, always. What I got . . .” His hands gripped the back of his neck as he paced away.
It seemed he would stalk out of the room. But he stopped, his back stiff as starch. All at once his hands fell to his sides and his head dipped. When he spoke again, his voice was a jagged sound. “She broke me.”
Dread was a dark thing creeping down her throat, headed towards her heart. “You said that before.” Layla moved as slowly as she could, but she needed to be near him. “Tell me what was done to you, St. John. You hurt so badly. I cannot bear it.”
He wouldn’t turn. “A man should be allowed to keep some things for himself, Layla. This is my business alone.”
“It is my business too,” she said, coming up behind him.
He snorted, a loud and angry sound as he whipped around to glare. “How the bloody hell do you figure that?”
“Because you, St. John Evernight, are mine. Whether you will it or not. Your heart and soul have been mine to keep since I climbed up in that bloody tree to drive you mad. Mine to protect. And if you are bloody broken, then I bloody well will be here to help you put the pieces back together.”
She stood before him, her breasts heaving against her bodice, her breath agitated.
He gaped at her as if she’d lost her mind. Annoyed, Layla did not break his stare, but lifted her chin. She was not leaving him. Never again.
Perhaps the stubborn arse finally saw that, for he swallowed hard and his expression crumpled. With a strangled sound he ducked his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. A harsh, choking sound left him as his shoulders vibrated with tension—a man trying his best not to break apart any further.
“Oh, Saint.” Layla laid her hand upon his chest.
He let go then, his knees giving out on him. Sinking to the floor, he pressed against her, his face burrowing in the valley of her breasts. As he shook, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on tight, curving over him so that she might give him shelter for once.
Sin gripped her hips so tightly she felt her bones creak. But she did not mind. Especially when he held on as though he feared she might disappear.
“Layla,” he said in a ragged whisper, “I don’t want you to know what I’ve become. I don’t want you to hear those things.”
She combed her hand through his cool hair, the strands like silk against her skin. “Answer this one question truthfully.” When he stilled, she asked him, “If the tables were turned and all that you hold in your mind, all these deeds you’re afraid to show me, were on me. If I had done them instead, would you walk away?”
Silence ticked through the room. Sin’s deep breaths gusted warmth through her bodice. Making a small sound of defeat, he pressed his head more firmly into her. “I want to say yes to win th
is argument, but you asked for honesty. I would never turn away from you.”
Layla leaned down and kissed the crown of his head. “Then I suspect you already know that I could never do the same.”
When he sighed, she tugged him upward. Sin followed, not looking her in the eye. No, not yet. But he would. He had to, for she would not give up on him.
“Tell me something,” she said, guiding him out of the kitchen and into the library where Sin had started a fire in the grate for more warmth. “It is clear you do not like to be touched. You tolerate it fairly well with me.” He shot her a wry glance, but said nothing. Layla continued. “But mainly it is you touching me. Should I try the same without warning, you flinch.”
He flinched then at her words but did not deny them. Together, they sat perched upon the edge of the velvet couch that faced the fireplace.
Back straight as an arrow, Sin frowned down at his bent knees, then cleared his throat. His voice was like rust. “You are correct. The touch of another is unpleasant for me.” He glanced at her, his eyes rimmed in red, but quickly slid his gaze away. “It isn’t with you, but I still have to tell myself that it is you, not . . .”
His teeth sank into his bottom lip, and then he truly looked at her, locking his green gaze to hers. “You promised not to turn away. But if I tell you all, will you promise not to take my sins onto yourself?”
Layla blinked, her mouth opening to agree, but she realized that he’d trapped her. He knew Layla would find a way to blame herself. For not being there, for not coming back to him soon enough, or—silly as it would seem—for him experiencing pain at all. A wry smile tugged at her lips. “Well-played, sir.”
He did not smile but simply waited.
“This is emotional blackmail, you realize,” Layla hedged.
His green gaze bore into her.
She sighed. “Very well. I promise.”
Sin gave a slight nod. “I do not believe you,” he said. “But I will remind you of that promise, regardless.”
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