Page 47 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Sixteen

Mercy

It seems that every time I take a step forward in life, I take two steps back. For a moment there, I honestly thought things were looking up, and then Cisco does this.

No.

I stalk after him, closing the gap fast. I grab his shirt, balling it in my fist and forcing him to look at me.

“You lost control,” I grind out. “You weren’t there to see what happened.”

“One hour.” He sneers. “One hour with him and you spill your heart. I waited for you for weeks, hours at a time, in that confessional.”

“We talked about these frescoes,” I whisper. “That’s all.”

He grunts, unconvinced.

I ball his shirt tighter. “I’m telling the truth. There was this Roman god fresco and a picture of the same fucking sword. It’s not broken, by the way.”

I let go and step back, heaving in the thick night air.

“Seems like something I should have seen.”

“That’s exactly what I told him.” My voice skips like a scratched record, but I roll over it. “There were all these murals. Pagan. Roman. Gods everywhere, but they weren’t just standing around eating grapes and fucking each other as you’d expect—there was this whole story.”

“Sounds like excuses.”

He moves onward, heading to his bag. Just like that, he dismisses me. I know he’s hurting, but this is bullshit.

The walls feel like they’re closing in, and for a fleeting second, I hear the sound of a swinging rope in the rafters.

“What do you think happened?” I step in front of him, blocking his path. “That I fucked him?”

“You owe me nothing.” Bitterness laces his tone. “I am not your saint. I’m not even your confessor.”

Blind fury vibrates through me.

I should hit him. Knock some sense into him. Normally, Cisco would be right. I’d fuck him, or Asmodeus, or anyone else, because it’s better than talking about it.

But with Cisco, I’ve never been able to do that, never been able to use sex as an excuse.

Can’t he tell that he’s different? Why do I have to bare my deepest shame for him to see that?

He stares at me with empty eyes, and they’re so different from the ones that glared at me from across the campfire, pointing out that he’s shared so much more of his shame with me than I have. Then I hear Asmodeus’s voice in my head. His hunger has nothing to do with ours.

I won’t get through to Cisco unless I give him something of me.

There is the hunger that fills your soul, and there is the one that empties it.

Despite the pain already forming inside me, I cup his stubbled jaw and confess before I can stop myself.

“My mother hated me,” I snarl. “Like in a really, down-to-the-marrow, toxic and envious way. I hit puberty really early. Grew these—” I jab my fist into my breast, hard enough to hurt. “And the men noticed. They always notice. But my father didn’t. He was the only one who saw me as a kid and kept me safe. So she hated that. She wanted him to herself.”

Cisco’s jaw ticks, but he stays silent, giving me room to spew my shame.

The stupid man wants this part of me. It’s terrifying, mortifying, and embarrassing. But this is the flame. This is the reason why we are alive. If I can’t share this with him, then who?

I don’t want to be alone anymore.