Page 10 of House of Sin
John and I wandered into the living room, our steps slow, unhurried, like we were both quietly resisting the inevitability of the evening winding down. He ran his hands down the front of his jeans, leaving faint streaks of dust in their wake.
“Looks like I brought home a bit of the mine with me,” he noted, grinning as he glanced at the smudges.
“You always do,” I replied, my smile softening. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”
He bent down and kissed my forehead, a quiet, familiar gesture that still managed to make something settle in my chest. “Thanks for holding down the fort,” he sighed. “You make it look easy.”
“It’s a team effort,” I affirmed, letting my gaze drift toward the stairs, where the aftertones of Ray’s laughter still lingered.
In the kitchen, I returned to the stove and carefully ladled steaming soup into the ceramic bowls. It was my grandfather’s recipe passed down over the years and a household favorite. Macaroni, hamburger, onions, tomato sauce, and just enough seasoning to taste like a fond memory. Simple, yes, but solid. It was comfort in a pot.
I placed the last bowl on the table, and as I did, the clean scent of pine soap wafted into the room, a subtle signal that John had washed up. A moment later, I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind, warm and strong and still slightly damp. I leaned back into him without thinking, letting myself rest there just long enough before gently tapping his hand.
“Dinner smells amazing,” he said, his voice low, planting a kiss on my neck.
“Well thank ya, darlin’,” I drawled.
Heavy footfalls thundered down the stairs, and Ray reappeared in a blur of motion, sliding into his seat with an enthusiasm that always made me smile. His eyes were bright, cheeks still pink from scrubbing, and though he said nothing at first, his whole body practically buzzed with energy.
John settled into the chair beside him, their connection palpable and unspoken. Once upon a time, I had been Ray’s whole universe. But lately, I’d noticed the shift, subtle at first, then clearer by the day. He was watching John now, learning from him. Looking to him for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask yet.
“So,” John began, lifting his spoon and blowing gently on the steam, “what’d I miss while I was working away underground?”
“Just some serious slingshot action!” Ray declared, already halfway through his first bite. “I hitallthe cans. You should’ve seen it!”
John raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Well damn, guess I’ve got some competition.” A heartbeat passed as he considered his words. “Since you don’thave school tomorrow ... what do you think? Want to come help out at the mine?”
Ray’s jaw dropped, eyes wide in disbelief, but before he could say a word, John turned to me, the unspoken question hanging in the air between us.
“If that’s alright with your mother?” He asked, his tone gentle, but with that sly twinkle in his eye that always managed to charm us both.
Ray was frozen in place, not even breathing, hope practically vibrating under his skin. His whole body leaned into the silence, waiting.
I gave a small shrug, my voice casual, but my chest warm with affection. “Sure,” I said, looking between them, “I’m fine with that.”
In an instant, Ray launched himself out of his chair and flew across the room, arms flung wide, crashing into me with the kind of reckless, unfiltered love only a child can give. His arms wrapped around my neck so tightly it bordered on strangulation, but I laughed anyway, holding on as tightly as he did.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chanted, breathless, the words tumbling out in a blur.
Then, as if suddenly remembering that he was almost a man, or at least believed himself to be, he pulled back, cleared his throat, and offered a more composed “Thanks” in a voice an octave lower than usual.
John and I caught each other’s eyes across the table, and in that shared glance, something passed between us—recognition, pride, quiet amusement, and a tenderness that needed no words. We both smiled, and seeing John reflecting my smile filled me from the inside, and everything else vanished.
That moment right there . . . that was the kind of thing I’d carry with me always. The quiet magic of a Tuesday night. A bowl of soup passed hand to hand. A well-aimed shot. A boy so full of gratitude it nearly burst out of him, and a house alive with laughterand love.
6
TEN LITTLE PIGGIES, CATNIP, AND THE SKID MARKS THAT RUINED IT ALL
The short walk to Maeve’s house was a welcome one. With each step, I felt the heaviness in my chest loosen just a little, and I focused on the present instead: the people who loved me, thewarmth waiting inside Maeve’s home, and the meal that would fill more than just my stomach.
Maeve came from money,seriousmoney. Her family’s ties to the Irish monarchy gave her more than wealth; they gave her access to a world most people only read about in books, and her home reflected that. A neoclassical mansion built just four years ago in 1906, its red bricks gleaming beneath the glow of the streetlamps and bright white pillars framing the entrance.
I didn’t bother with the iron wolf door knocker, its gleaming eyes always watching. Instead, I turned the brass handle and stepped inside. The entry hall was still, except for the faint voices drifting from above. Candles danced in the sconces, casting soft shadows across the polished marble, and the scent of sandalwood layered with vetiver lingered in the air.
My heels touched the floor without a sound, each step steady and unhurried as I moved through the archway, the hem of my dress grazing the edge of the rug as I approached the staircase. Upstairs, the ballroom overlooked the front patio. Warm light spilledthrough the tall windows, skimming the polished floors like liquid gold. Violet spotted me first.
“Birdie!” She called out, beaming. Her hair was pulled into a long French braid, giving her an almost girlish glow.
