Page 68 of A House of Gold
It feels like forever.
When it’s finally over, when the last of the pride has burned away in white fire, I collapse forward, forehead pressed to the cool stone, trying to remember how to breathe.
I’m hollow, scraped out, empty of everything except exhaustion and pain.
The circle releases me. The wards fall away. The candles gutter and die. I lie there in the dark, blood cooling on my arm, the forty-sixth tattoo starting on my arm already while I try to find the strength to stand.
I can’t.
My body won’t cooperate. My arms won’t hold me. I’m done. Completely, utterly done.
The door opens and footsteps cross the room, stopping just outside the circle’s edge.
“How long have you been out there?” My voice comes out hoarse, wrecked.
“The entire time.” Croesus crouches beside me, and I can feel his presence like heat, like gravity. “You were in here for an hour.”
An hour. It felt like minutes. Or days. Time doesn’t work right when you’re purging sins.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re bleeding.” His hand touches my cut arm, gently, carefully. “And you’ve been lying on the floor. I’m never going to be able to keep you in a decent wardrobe.”
“Just resting,” I manage.
“You’re collapsing.” His other hand slides under my shoulder, helping me sit up. The room spins. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need it.” The words stick. Because I need help. I can’t stand on my own. I can’t even sit up without his support. And now that the pride is gone, I can’t hide behind it anymore. Can’t pretend I’m invincible.
I’m tired and human and breaking.
“I know you don’t need help.” His voice is quiet. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. But you’re going to accept it anyway, because the alternative is passing out on this floor and spending the night here.”
He’s right, but I don’t have to like it or admit it out loud.
He helps me to my feet, or tries to. My legs give out halfway up, and he catches me, one arm around my waist, pulling me against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
And that’s when I start crying.
Not loud, dramatic sobs. Just silent tears sliding down my face because I’m so tired and I hurt everywhere, and I just purged seven years of pride that tried to kill me, and I can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep pretending I’m strong enough. Can’t keep surviving on spite and stubbornness.
“Raven.” His hand comes up to my face, thumb wiping away tears. “What is this?”
“I’m fine.” But my voice breaks on the word. “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“You’re not fine.” His gold eyes searching mine.
“I had to do it alone. That’s how it works.”
“It doesn’t have to work that way.” His jaw tightens. “You could have let me help. Could have asked me to stay with you during the ritual.”
“To what? Watch me bleed and cry and barely survive?” I try to pull away, but I don’t have the strength. “That’s not your job. You’re not my keeper.”
“For the next year, I am exactly that.” His grip tightens, not painfully, just firm. Grounding. “You are my responsibility. My employee. My sin eater. And I will not watch you destroy yourself trying to prove you don’t need anyone.”
“I don’t.”
