Page 25 of A House of Gold
And I’m supposed to what? Negotiate with him? Stand my ground? Pretend I’m not terrified?
The silence stretches. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
My throat is closing up. I need to say something, do something, but the fear is paralyzing. Every horror story I’ve ever heard about the houses, about angels, about what happens to humans who displease them. It’s all flooding back, drowning me.
Finally, because I can’t stand it anymore, because silence feels like dying slowly, I speak. “I’m here.”
My voice comes out steady. Whew. Small victory.
“I know.” His voice is deep, smooth, like aged whiskey poured over velvet. Every word perfectly enunciated, no wasted syllables, a voice that could read a grocery list and make it sound like poetry. Or a threat. “You’re on time. That’s good. I appreciate punctuality.”
He still doesn’t turn around.
Another beat of silence. I shift my weight, and my boot scrapes against the marble. The sound is too loud in the quiet room, and I wince internally. Clumsy. Human. Graceless.
I’m making a fool of myself, and he hasn’t even looked at me yet.
“Are you going to turn around?” I ask. The words come out with more bite than I intend, sharp edges on what should probably be a respectful question. But I can’t help it. Sarcasm is my armor. Always has been. When I’m scared, I get mouthy. It’s kept me alive this long. “Or should I just talk to your back for the next year?”
Inside, I’m screaming at myself.Shut up. Shut up. Don’t antagonize the ancient angel who literally owns you for the next twelve months.
But my mouth has never been good at listening to my brain.
That gets a reaction. A soft laugh, barely audible, like wind through dry leaves. Then, slowly, so slowly he turns, and I get my first real look at the Angel of Greed.
He’s beautiful.
That’s the first thing my brain registers, even though I don’t want it to. Even though beauty shouldn’t matter when you’re looking at something that could destroy you without effort. But he is beautiful, in the way classical sculptures are beautiful, all perfect proportions and elegant lines and features which seem designed by some divine hand rather than born. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Strong jaw. A mouth that’s almost too perfect to be real, looking like it was made for either poetry or sin.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Fear and attraction tangle together until I can’t tell which is which.
But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.
They’re gold. Pure molten gold, glowing faintly in the soft light of the room like embers in a dying fire. No white. No pupil.No iris. Just liquid gold where eyes should be, beautiful and alien and utterly wrong.
I’ve never seen anything like them. Never even imagined eyes could look like that, like someone poured precious metal into the sockets, and it somehow came alive.
He’s looking in my direction, his face turned toward me, his body angled to face mine, but something about his gaze is off. Like he’s looking at me but not quite at me, as if his focus is somewhere to the left of where I’m standing, or maybe through me entirely.
It’s unsettling.
“Better?” he asks, and there’s amusement in his tone. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and finds it entertaining.
I swallow hard. My throat feels like sandpaper. “Debatable.”
Better? No. Nothing about this is better.You’re terrifying and beautiful, and I want to run, and I can’t, and I hate this I hate this I hate this?—.
But I keep my face neutral. Or try to. I’m pretty sure I’m failing.
“You’re Croesus,” I say, because stating the obvious seems safer than anything else I could say right now.
“I am.” He moves then, walking toward me with a grace that’s both leonine and predatory. Each step is deliberate, soundless despite his size. Like he’s not walking but gliding, like gravity doesn’t apply to him the same way it does to me.
I fight the urge to retreat. To give ground. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to create distance, to maintain space between myself and this thing that looks like a man but absolutely isn’t.
But I don’t move. Can’t. Moving would be admitting I’m afraid. And I can’t afford to show weakness. Not here. Not now. Not to him.
“And you’re Raven Vesper,” he continues, still closing the distance between us. Six feet now. Five. “Sin eater.”
