Page 32 of Glutton for Punishment

I shift my weight against the wall, and the movement drags my bandaged arm across the concrete and stone. White-hot pain lances up my side.

“Fuck,” I hiss, going rigid.

The word echoes off the concrete, and my breath stutters as I look down at my arm.

Blood has already soaked through the bandage, blooming dark and wet.

Fantastic.

I squeeze my eyes shut, riding out the throb. Healing powers would be really nice right about now. Or painkillers. I’m not picky.

The stone in my hand warms, drawing my attention.

Atticus insists they’re inert without activation, just glorified paperweights.

But this one feels… awake. My eyes snap open.

“Atticus,” I say, heart pounding, “I think the stone is doing something.”

I push myself to my feet despite the protests screaming from every nerve and limp toward the bars. I press the stone into his waiting hand.

He sucks in a sharp breath the second his fingers close around it. “I feel it,” he says, voice going tight. “It’s… reacting. Like it’s waking up. This is how the relics I’ve handled have felt.” His brow furrows. “But how?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” I mutter.

He turns the stone over, studying it like it might bite him. “I don’t know what it does.”

He hands it back. The second it’s in my palm again, a tingling sensation crawls up my arm. Not painful. Almost… soothing.

I freeze.

“Uh,” I whisper.

My gaze drops to my arm. The bandage feels warm now, damp but not with blood. Heat seeps into my skin, spreading outward in slow waves. I peel the fabric back inch by inch to find my skin’s edges kitting back together.

The cut is closing. Not instantly. But it’s undeniable. It’s healing—red fading to pink, pain dulling into a distant ache.

“What the—”

Atticus is already there, fingers wrapping around my wrist as he carefully twists my arms to see. “Arwen,” he breathes. “The stone,” he says, eyes locked on my arm. “It’s healing you.”

I huff a breath, half hysterical. “I’m confused. Sloths are supposed to be the only ones who can activate these, right?”

“That’s true,” he says. Then he falters. “Or at least that’s what every history book has said.”

I lift my gaze to his, “Then how did this one activate?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Chapter 10

Ryker

The skyline of Greed spreads out below me, one hundred and thirty-eight floors down, jagged and glittering against the dark sky. I let my eyes move across it. Mine. Not officially. Not yet. But I’ve never been good at entertaining alternatives.

Lights from the skyline spill through the massive windows, turning the suite into a haze of gold and neon. My reflection flickers faintly in the glass, vibrating with the pulse of the club music.

The bass hits so deep it’s a physical presence, a thrumming that travels up through the soles of my shoes and vibrates in my teeth. The floorboards pulse like the heavy heartbeat of some great beast. I watch a glass of amber liquor tremble on the marble countertop, each ripple timed to the beat. My focus blurs, my mind latching onto that rhythm, counting each thump like seconds slipping through an hourglass.