Page 152 of Sinister

“Worried?” I ask, my voice low.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t find your way back.”

I frown. What is he talking about?

In a few strides, he’s in front of me, reaching for my hand.

“Where are we?” I whisper. “What is this place?”

“You like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I admit. “But I don’t understand. Where are we?”

“This is my home,” he says with a gentle smile. “Welcome.”

His home?

“I have a surprise for you,” he adds, lacing his fingers with mine and leading me across the room. We approach a section of the wall that appears solid until he opens a hidden door nestled between the shelves. I gasp.

Inside is a room filled with art supplies.

Canvases. Brushes. Jars of paint. Pencils, charcoal, pastels—everything arranged with obsessive care. A chair sits in the center in front of a blank canvas, waiting.

“What is this?” I breathe.

“You mentioned once that you loved to draw,” he says, eyes lighting up. “And I know you can’t do it at home. So I made this for you. A space that’s yours. A place to make you happy.”

He looks proud, almost giddy with anticipation. My eyes shift from the room to his face, and something inside me shifts, too.

A tremor passes through my stomach, and my heart begins to beat faster—but this time, not out of fear. It’s something else entirely. Something only he can make me feel.

“I . . . don’t think I ever told you about that,” I whisper.

No. I know I never did. It was too private, too sacred. Drawing was mine. Something I did in secret, with joy and reverence. I never even dared speak of it aloud, the way I never dared speak of reading books.

Too intimate. Too forbidden.

Which means . . . this must be a dream, right?

It has to be. Another dream conjured by my subconscious, where he knows things I’ve never said aloud.

Because that’s what dreams do. They give us what we secretly want.

A part of me knows that if Sin had actually done this for me in real life, I’d be terrified. Cautious.

He is a terrifying man—intense, powerful, otherworldly. Forbidden.

And yet . . .

Despite everything, the lies, the half-truths, the shadows that cling to him, this dream is telling me the truth I don’t want to admit: I still want him.

Even knowing the danger. Even knowing he’s hiding things. I still want him.

“How long have you been living here?” I ask, still stunned by the room around us.

“A few years,” he answers vaguely, offering a small shrug.

“But it’s underground,” I say, trying to make sense of it. “You actually live down here?”