Page 84 of Two Sides of Sin

I hadn’t slept in days. In truth, I rarely slept at all anymore, and the nightmares when I did made it a luxury I couldn’t afford. But here, anchored to the earth by the steady beat of her living heart, the adrenaline finally crashed. The monumental weight of the night—and the last hundred years—finally hit me.

My eyes grew impossibly heavy. Listening to her small, even breaths, the freezing stone vault and the smell of war began to fade away. I slipped under the surface, falling into a deep, heavy sleep.

And for the first time since she left me, the darkness didn’t bring nightmares of blood. It pulled me backwards, down into a vivid, heartbreaking dream. A memory from a long, long time ago, back when the world was quiet and my hands were clean.

The freezing stone of the vault floor dissolved, melting away into the impossible, sun-soaked warmth of a late summer afternoon.

The heavy stench of smoke and gunpowder was instantly replaced by the intoxicating, sweet fragrance of blooming roses and freshly cut grass. I wasn’t wearing my bloody uniform anymore. My chest felt light, unburdened by the crushing weight of my life for the first time.

I was sitting on a wrought-iron bench in the sprawling, manicured gardens of the Manor, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of the ancient willow trees. And there she was, right in front of me.

June.

She was sitting in the grass just a few feet away, her back to me as she focused intently on the large canvas propped up on her easel. She wore a simple, light-coloured dress that caught the summer breeze, her dark, heavy waves pinned up loosely at the nape of her neck, though a few stray curls had escaped to frame her face.

She was painting the rose bushes, but I wasn’t looking at the canvas. I hadn’t looked at the canvas once in the last hour.

“You’re staring again, Julian,” she said, her voice a bright, angelic sound that made my chest physically ache with how much I loved her.

“I’m admiring the view,” I replied, leaning back and resting my arm along the back of the bench.

“You are ignoring my masterpiece,” she teased, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her ocean-blue eyes were sparkling, bright and free of the shadows that haunted the modern world. There was a smudge of oil paint on her cheek, right along the delicate curve of her cheekbone.

“The roses pale in comparison to you, the real masterpiece,” I said, my voice dropping lower, thick with an adoration I only ever showed her.

June laughed—a soul snatching sound that I had spent years desperately trying not to forget. She set her palette down beside her and stood up, turning to face me fully. She held a thin paintbrush in her right hand, the bristles coated in a deep, forest green.

“You’re too charming today,” she mused, walking slowly towards me with a wicked, playful glint in her eyes. “It’s suspicious.”

“I am simply speaking the truth,” I defended smoothly, though I tracked the paintbrush in her hand with a wary, amused gaze. “June. Put the weapon down.”

“It’s just a little paint, Julian,” she giggled, stepping right between my parted knees. “You look a little pale.”

Before I could grab her wrist, she reached out and dragged the soft bristles of the brush right down the centre of my nose, leaving a bright streak of green paint behind.

I let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound vibrating deep in my chest. It felt so incredibly real. The warmth of the sun on my skin, the softness of her dress brushing against my legs, the bright, infectious sound of her giggling as she tried to step back to admire her handiwork.

But I didn’t let her get far.

Before she could retreat, I reached out and caught her by the waist. I pulled her firmly forwards, dragging her right off her feet and into my lap. She let out a breathless shriek of laughter, her hands instinctively flying up to brace against my shoulders—thankfully keeping the painted brush away from my pristine white shirt.

“Julian!” she scolded playfully, though she was smiling so hard her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“You missed a spot,” I murmured, my hands sliding up her back to tangle in the loose, messy up do of her dark hair.

I didn’t give her a chance to reply. I pulled her down and crashed my mouth against hers. She melted into me instantly, her laughter dying against my lips, replaced by a soft, content sigh. The kiss was deep and intimate, tasting of summer air, strawberry lip balm and the faint, lingering sweetness of the lemonade we had made earlier.

She shifted in my lap, her body pressing flush against me. She was safe, alive, and mine. I held her tighter, anchoring myself to the beautiful, vibrant reality of her, desperately wishing this afternoon would last for eternity.

The warmth of the Manor gardens vanished in an instant, the phantom scent of summer roses ripped away by the freezing, damp air of the stone cellar.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting as a gentle, hesitant hand shook my shoulder.

“Julian.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper in the dim, crowded sanctuary, but to me, it cut through the noise of the world like an angel calling me back from the dead.

I instantly realised what I was doing. I was lying on the narrow make shift bed, my massive frame still curled protectively around her back, my arm resting heavily across her waist. The blood on my gear had dried completely, but the reality of what I was—and the fact that I had selfishly crawled into her bed in the dark—hit me, causing a sickening pang of guilt in my chest.