Page 38 of House of Sin
Once.
Twice.
Each sound closing the distance until it was no longer polite, until the space between us felt charged in a way that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with control.
“I’m not implying anything,” I said quietly. “I’m making sure you understand exactly what kind of mistake you’ve made.”
For a fraction of a second, he held my gaze, clinging to whatever kindness he thought still lived there.
Then I reached into the pocket of my dress and by the time he realized what I was holding, it was already too late. The knife flashed once beneath the gallery lights before I drove it through the back of his hand, the blade sinking deeply enough that the tip lodged into the wood of the counter with a dull, splintering crack that vibrated up my arm.
His body jerked hard in response, a broken sound tearing free from his throat as he tried to pull back, causing the wound to open wider. He frantically screamed before my free hand came up, clamping firm over his mouth.
“Careful,” I murmured, leaning in close. “You wouldn’t want to make a scene in your beautiful gallery.”
His breath came sharp against my palm, uneven and shallow, his eyes wide and full of fear. Up close, I could see it clearly now, the understanding, the dawning realization that I was in fact, as crazy as they said I was. And that brought me a sick kind of joy.
My gaze dropped to the wound, blood pooling, spilling over his skin, and dripping down onto the polished surface below.
“Let this be the part you remember,” I said, my fingers tightening around the handle, anchoring him in place. “Not the apology you performed. Not the sale you nearly lost.” I twisted the blade. “But this.”
He let out a muffled cry, his breath stuttering against my palm as tears slipped down his face.
I eased my hand from his mouth, turning the blade once more before pulling it free, the wood and bone yielding with a reluctant scrape as he cried out in pain. I dragged the blade clean across the front of his shirt, the gesture almost absentminded, before slipping it neatly back into my pocket.
I stepped away, smoothing my dress as though nothing at all had happened.
At the door, I paused, glancing back over my shoulder. His injured hand was clutched to his chest now, his body curled inward, but he hadn’t moved from where I left him.
“Do be more careful next time,” I said lightly. “Not everyone is as forgiving as Elona.”
Then I unlocked the door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the sun as if I were leaving nothing more than an ordinary meeting behind me.
“Have a nice day,Mr. Bennett.”
23
PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH
HIM
Ihad been in Butte for nearly a week and already a gnawing unease had begun to take root deep within me. The town, with its charming streets and humble homes, had welcomed me with open arms. The people were kind, perhaps naivelyso. The whole town seemed to hold great respect for Father Cyrus, as though he were a god amongst men, with his broad smile, gentle words, and calm demeanor. And truthfully, I could see why they admired him. His presence was steadying, his faith apparent in everything he did. But there was one thing that I could not understand: the brothel. It wasn’t the existence of it that troubled me, per se, it was the way the townsfolk, and Father Cyrus himself, seemed to accept it with a level of tolerance that seemed to me both appalling and irredeemable.
My mind swirled with confusion as I paced the small rectory with my hands clasped tightly behind my back. How could they, these good, God-fearing people, simply overlook the sinful presence of that establishment in their midst? The brothel, with its open doors, its welcoming embrace of men and women who sullied their souls in acts of lust—how could Father Cyrus, a priest, allow such an abomination to exist under his watch? How could he stand idly by, offering grace to the women who worked there and the men who frequented it?
My thoughts spiraled. I had heard the whispers around town, the rumors about Bernadette, the owner, and her business. She had been to church, in fact she was a regular, and she was even respected by Father Cyrus. It was inconceivable to me.
I remembered the first time I met Bernadette and her girls. They had entered St. Ann’s on a Sunday morning, wearing lavish silk dresses that looked far too expensive for women who supposedly lived a life of sin. They had seated themselves with such casualness, such ease, as though they were just like any other parishioners, and Father Cyrus had welcomed them with a smile, rather than rebuke. He had even joked with them, as if they were just old friends, not the harbingers of moral decay that I, and any other ordained man of God, understood them to be. I did, however, notice the way the other townsfolk had reacted. They had judgment in their eyes and a clear sense of disapproval. But still, it was almost as though the brothel were simply another business in town, no different than a bakery or a hardware store.
“Disgusting!” I blurted aloud.
My hand tightened into a fist as I paced the room, my footsteps echoing through the rectory. The walls, adorned with simple religious symbolism, seemed to close in on me, each crucifix staring down at me with a silent reprimand. I felt trapped in a sea of hypocrisy, but it wasn’t just the brothel that plagued my thoughts, there was something else. Someone else.
Violet.
I had seen her at church, seated in the pews with Bernadette and the other girls, her long, angelic blond hair falling in gentle waves around her shoulders, her skin pale and flawless. She had a mysteriousness about her, something dark and dangerous but also irresistibly beautiful. Violet didn’t laugh like the others, didn’t smile like the others. She just watched, with those dark, brown eyes that seemed to strip me bare every time her gaze found mine. I caught myself watching her during the sermon, again and again, my mind a twisted pit of filthy thoughts that made me want to vomit. It was her fault: Violet’s.
She haunted my every waking hour. She was the cause of every desperate, shameful night spent touching myself alone inthe dark, begging for release from a craving I knew was sinful but couldn’t stop.
