“No, I’m practical.” I keep watch on him as he returns his attention to me, his face angled toward mine but his gaze still not quite landing. “I figured whatever I brought wouldn’t matter much, anyway. Can’t exactly fight my way out of here with a duffel bag full of underwear.”
Another laugh, this one genuine. “I like you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” He moves again, circling me slowly. I turn to keep him in my line of sight, but he’s moving just fast enough that I have to work at it. “I know you’ve been a sineater for eighteen years. Forty-four successful contract breaks. An impressive record.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
“I always research my acquisitions.” He completes his circle, ending up back where he started, between me and the door. “I know your mother died when you were nineteen. Car accident. You raised your half-sister alone with the help of your grandmother. And now you put her through school while building your reputation as a sin eater.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
“I know you’re protective of your sister. That you’d do anything to keep her safe. Including walking into my house and serving a debt you never agreed to.” He pauses. “I know Ash Malik visits your apartment at least twice a month. That he has a key. That he’s helped you through some difficult purges.”
The mention of Ash makes my stomach drop. “Leave him out of this.”
“Why? Is he important to you?” Croesus tilts his head again, that strange not-quite-looking gesture. “Does he make your heart race the way it’s racing now?”
“My heart is racing because I’m standing in a room with an angel who’s listing off my personal information like he’s reading my diary. That’s not attraction. That’s fear.”
“Are you sure?” He takes another step forward. Now he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the faint shimmer of gold in his eyes, deeper than the full effect of up close, can smell the metal and smoke on him. “Your pulse is elevated. Your breathing is shallow. You’re afraid, yes. But there’s something else underneath it.”
“Yeah. It’s called anger.” I force myself not to step back, not to give ground. “You’ve been spying on me. Watching me. Cataloging my life like I’m some kind of asset you’re gaining.”
“You are an asset I’m acquiring.” He says it matter-of-factly, without heat. “For the next year, you belong to me. Your time, your skills, your service, are all mine. I’d be a fool not to know exactly what I’m getting.”
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
“For the next year, you absolutely do.” He reaches out again, and this time his hand finds my chin. His fingers are warm, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts my head up. “Let me be very clear about the terms of your service, little sin eater. You will live in this house. You will break the contracts I assign you. You will go where I tell you, when I tell you, and you will do so without complaint. In exchange, I will protect your sister. I will ensure she remains safe, ignorant, and untouched by our world. That was the agreement.”
His thumb brushes against my jaw, and I realize with a start that he’s reading me. Not with his eyes, those gold eyes that don’t quite focus on anything, but with his hands. Learning the shape of my face through touch.
The realization clicks into place.
He can’t see me.
Not with his eyes, anyway.
I go very still, and he must feel it because his mouth curves into a small smile.
“There it is,” he says softly. “You’ve figured it out.”
“You’re blind.” I whisper it, carefully, not sure if acknowledging it will offend him.
“In the traditional sense, yes.” He doesn’t sound bothered by the observation. If anything, he sounds almost pleased that I noticed. “I can sense gold, sense value, sense the worth of things around me. But visual sight?” He releases my chin, steps back. “That particular sense was taken from me when I fell. A fitting punishment for the Angel of Greed, don’t you think? I can acquire anything, possess everything, but I’ll never see it.”
“That’s...” I search for the right word. Horrible seems too sympathetic. Fitting seems too cruel.
“Ironic?” he suggests. “Poetic? Deeply, cosmically unfair?” He moves back to his desk, running his fingers along the edge with casual familiarity. “I’ve had three thousand years to make peace with it. I manage.”
“By cataloging everything through other means.”
“Precisely.” He turns toward me again, and now that I know he can’t see me, the way he orients himself makes more sense. He’s tracking me by sound, by scent, by the shift in air when I move. “I can hear your heartbeat from across the room. I can smell the iron in your blood, the magic in your bones, the fear you’re trying so hard to hide. I can sense the value of every object you carry. That photograph is priceless to you, worth more than gold. The knife is purely functional. The clothes are cheap but well-maintained.” He pauses. “And I can tell, just from the way you’re breathing, that you’re attracted to me. Even though you don’t want to be.”
Heat floods my face. “That’s?—”
“Don’t bother denying it. I can smell arousal. It has a very distinctive scent.” He sounds amused. “You’re angry, yes. Frightened, absolutely. But underneath all of that, there’s desire. Your body is responding to proximity to an angel, even if your mind is screaming at you to run.”
