Page 116 of Devoured

Cora knew what she was doing. She manipulated him. She played him like a puppet, just as she does the rest of us. An adult with a lust for vengeance, she took a sad little boy and turned him into a monster.

Suddenly, her words from the throne room cut deep in my chest.

“You think those purple eyes make you different, Vanessa Hart? You think they make you better? No, no, no, darling. They make you just like me.”

It isn’t true, though. I’m nothing like her.

“I’m sorry, Sin.”

His brow furrows as if he is unable to comprehend the words. “You are the last person in this castle who should ever say that. No, Vanessa.” He sits up abruptly, twisting to face me. “I don’t accept.”

“I’m not apologizing for everything else; I’m just… sorry that I didn’t understand earlier. But thank you for explaining it to me now.”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile but more breathtaking because, for once, it’s completely and utterly honest. “If I knew you had a kink for childhood trauma, I’d have sobbed to you far earlier.”

“Don’t know that I’d call it childhood trauma as much as generational trauma, but sure. Whatever works for you.” I smile back at him, wishing this moment could exist forever. Just Sin and me in this room, pretending again. It’s so easy when we pretend.

He takes my hand then, curls his fingers through mine, then squeezes. One gentle squeeze. And then he lets go without a word.

“That’s enough of that.” Scooting to the edge of the bed, he wipes his nose on his arm. Blinks away the rest of his tears. His hair, however, still sticks up from the back of his head like a small child’s after being woken from a deep sleep, and no matter how much he tries to tame it with his fingers, it won’t lie flat. He swears again. “You wouldn’t happen to keep a bottle of argan oil stashed in here somewhere, would you?”

I gesture to the narrow walls and horrid tapestries. “Honestly, I don’t think the room could fit it.”

“No.” He frowns, and his nose scrunches. “Definitely not. Remind me to set this place ablaze when we’re mated.”

My heart skips a beat, and I choke on my saliva. He arches a brow, grinning, but doesn’t respond to my surprise. Instead, his gaze falls to my bodice, to the sweat-stained lace, and he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to change you because it didn’t feel entirely appropriate, given the circumstances, but I made sure to tuck some new gowns in your dresser.”

“Thank you, Sin.”

“Of course.” He dips his chin, his gaze twinkling with that merry, mischievous facade he wears so well. Mates. The word lingers between us, heavy and hopeful all at once. And since we’re pretending, I can see it too—the two of us older, happier. Laughing. We’ve forgotten all about this nightmare, forgotten all their names. It would be so much easier to forget. To move on and keep pretending.

Easier, but not better. Not right.

A rap on the door steals me from my thoughts. I tense, but Sin just smooths out his shirt and stands as if he expects the visitor. As if he’s not worried at all.

“That would be Calix,” he explains. “Did I mention he was with me when I found you?”

My pulse thunders, and for once, I’m not certain it matches the rhythm of Sin’s. I sit up taller and fiddle with the lace on my bodice. For some reason, I can’t help wishing that Sin had changed me. That I didn’t look so ill. “No. You didn’t.”

“Oh. My mistake.” Sin winks at me. “You can imagine he was quite furious. I’m sure he’s back with even more medicinal supplies. Honestly, I’ve thrown out enough useless pills and tonics to start my own apothecary. There is a gnarled old woman trapped in that warrior body of his, I swear.”

Sure enough, Calix kicks open the door and carries in a fresh cloth, a bottle filled with emerald liquid, and a glass of water. He doesn’t bother glancing at Sin, his scarlet gaze fixed solely on me as he stalks to my bedside.

A lock of black hair falls over his molten eyes as he crouches near me, removing the old compress and dampening the new cloth with that emerald liquid. He doesn’t speak at first, and Sin watches him work with silent amusement. All the while, Calix’s fingers move dexterously over my cheeks, my forehead, my arms. He checks my temperature. My pulse. My vision. Only once he has applied the new cloth—which miraculously soothes the remaining ache in my head—does he say, “How are you?”

His voice comes out rough. Concerned.

He slides a finger down my throat, continuing to count my pulse, but I slap his hand away before he can realize that my heart has decided to go into cardiac arrest at the mere sight of him.

Sin laughs at that, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. “Well, she’s healthy enough to put you in your place, Cousin.”

At that, Calix finally turns, glaring at Sin without a word, before returning his gaze to me.

“I’m alive,” I tell him, inexplicably flustered by the attention. “You don’t need to—to examine me like I’m a plague victim.”

“It’s true,” Sin says. “At one point, he brought leeches and a bowl.”

“I did not.” Calix moves his gaze over my hair, my bodice, the rumpled sheets, before sitting on the edge of my bed with a rough exhale. “You were unconscious for four days. I don’t think it’s an overreaction to be worried.” His gaze softens, and my insides turn to jelly. “I’m not the only one who was worried either.”