It takes me a moment to understand what connects them—they're all attempts to understand the supernatural, to make sense of immortality, morality, and the existence of a higher power.
My heart constricts as I imagine him sitting here, poring over these texts trying to make sense of his existence, analyzing every line to find similarities to what he’s been through—what he’s going through right now.
I’d do the same thing if I were him. How maddeningmust it be to know you're part of something divine but to not understand why or how? To know there's a God but not remember anything else about your creation or purpose? The questions have been eating atmesince I learned about it all, and I'm only a bystander.
It must be worse for him considering he’s not exactly on the side of righteousness. But then again, neither am I now.
“Find anything interesting?”
I jump at Ambrose’s voice, whirling around to find him watching me. His hair is still damp, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes my stomach flip. He looks softer somehow, more human, and that makes him more dangerous than ever.
I shrug as I step away from the shelf. “I was just curious if you had anything good.”
“And do I?”
I cross my arms, ignoring the way the air between us seems charged with electricity as he takes a step forward. “You’re bound to have a few decent ones with this collection.”
He picks up his book from the small table beside his armchair with that knowing half-smile playing at his lips again. “Whatever you say.”
I shake my head in annoyance and leave the room. Being alone with him is complicated now, after my getting hurt by the incident with the pastor and the way we got so close.Tooclose. Thealmostof that moment was arguably the most dangerous thing I’ve done since I’ve been here.
I need to focus on fulfilling the bargain and getting out of here as quickly as possible. He’s getting in my head, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stop him. The reasonable part of me wants to fight this budding affection with everyounce of strength I have, but the tiny voice in my mind argues, “Maybe it would be better to surrender.”
CHAPTER 27
“There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”
—F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I’ve been tossing and turning restlessly in bed for two hours unable to fall asleep. Being out here in the middle of nowhere is already a significant factor in me havingwaytoo much time to think, but now knowing that the supernatural exists, that a deity, in some form or another, exists…
Every time I’m alone in the stillness of the night, it’s impossible to think about anything else. Do Heaven and Hell exist since a deity does? I’m not single-minded enough to think that the Christian God is the only option, but I also can’t say He’s not. Who the hell knows? But if that is the case, if there is an afterlife dependent on morality, where isthe distinction between good and evil? The pastor I just killed spent most of his life posing as a man of God, preaching while simultaneously manipulating the helpless to indulge his greed. If there’s a Hell, he’s definitely going there, regardless of what he believed in.
But then, that begs the question of whether a soul’s admission to the afterlife is determined by faith, morality, or a mixture of both. I’ve never been convinced of the nonsense about how simply believing in God and asking for forgiveness are enough to get you into Heaven—there are too many evil people in the world using God’s name to justify their prejudice and hatred for that to be the case.
But in the case of morality, everything gets even more complicated. I don’t quite know what all the religious texts say about sin, but it would be ridiculous to believe that all sins are equal, right? I guess, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter considering that if there is a Heaven and Hell, I’m certainly destined to burn for eternity.
I’m not sure what time it is when I go downstairs to make myself a mug of tea, hoping it’ll help me sleep so I can have a break from the thoughts looping in my mind. When I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn to head to the kitchen, Ambrose’s low voice sounding from the living room startles me.
“Can’t sleep?”
I spin to face him. He’s in his armchair with a book in his hand, the lamplight emanating a yellow glow that casts shadows across his sharp features.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“You don’t have to be so defensive. It was a simple question,” he teases.
I sigh. “You’re right. Sorry. I’m just going to make some tea.”
“Make me a cup?”
“Sure.”
I turn to continue my path to the kitchen and fill the kettle with water before putting it on the stove. While I wait for it to heat, I ready the mugs with the tea bags and re-organize the cabinet to give myself something to do.
Finally, the water is boiling and I finish making the tea. With one mug in each hand, I head to the living room and place them both on the coffee table.
When Ambrose looks up from his book to smile at me, all the air leaves my lungs. For as much as I resent him, he is devastatingly handsome with his onyx hair, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes.
