Page 72 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Mercy laughs nervously. “Maybe if something other than cupcakes were on offer.”

“What do you mean?” Tawny’s brows pucker.

“I just … it’s … I caught him hiding from you in the reliquary the other day. You know, when you wanted him to taste-test for evil.”

I almost chuckle at the memory. Seems ridiculous now. Wait.

I pin Mercy with a glare. “You were going to torture me with cake?”

She shrugs. “I mean, it wasn’t a bad idea.”

I let that chuckle out, surprised at how normal it feels.

“You were both laughing at me?” Tawny’s expression is empty.

Mercy’s smile falters. “Babe … it wasn’t like that.”

“You guys always tease me.” Pain twists Tawny’s features into something fearful. “We have to be tough, I get it. But … I never believed you were really being mean until now.”

She drops the tray on the floor. Mugs shatter. Hot cocoa and cake splatter everywhere.

Twenty-Five

Mercy

Tawny walks out, slamming the door behind her so hard that the walls shudder. Tears sting my eyes. All I can do is stare at the door. Try to breathe. Try not to feel like a total fucking failure.

My legs buckle, and I drop to my knees, hard. The spike of pain is a welcome distraction from the mess inside my body, but it’s gone in a few seconds. It’s different from the cilices, and I left them in the damn bathroom.

Do something.

Move.

My hands fly, collecting broken pieces of porcelain. In my haste, I knock over a mug that miraculously landed upright. More milk and cake crumbs go everywhere.

Fuck!

My throat clogs, but I force my emotions down until my muscles slacken. If Cisco sees me losing it, I’ll look weak. Like I’m not fit to lead. Like, I should be old enough not to do this shit.

In my blurred periphery, a black-clad figure crouches to collect broken shards of ceramic.

“I’ve got this,” I mumble.

“I don’t mind.”

“Really, it’s fine.”

“I will help.”

I gesture at his pristinely pressed trousers. “You don’t need to get dirty.”

My fingers fumble on a cracked mug. It slips from my grasp, breaking. One broken mug, that’s all it takes, and my despair flips to anger. All my life, I’ve refused to show weakness, to blow away the storm clouds and sadness because I don’t want to end up like my Dad. The problem is that emotion must go somewhere. It simply can’t vanish. Even water turns into steam. If it’s not sex that I turn to, nor pain, then it must be rage. But once that door is open, it’s exceedingly difficult to close.

Trembling, I stare at the shards and want to scream. Rage. Inside me, the pressure builds and builds, and I don’t even know what I’m angry at anymore because I’ve reached that white noise side where nothing makes sense.

“A little bit of mess⁠—”

“I said I’ve got this!” I roar in Cisco’s face. A wave of prickling nausea hits me. The walls spin. Shit. I know better than to lose my temper. Shit.