Page 153 of Sinister

He chuckles. “These tunnels were here long before me. I just happened to stumble upon them and decided to make them my own. A place where no one could disturb me. And since St. Anselm Hall runs on electricity, I managed to connect it here as well. I’ve had time—and privacy.”

I nod slowly, but another question nags at me. “What about the other room you showed me, the small one, with the single bed and study? That one was in a different part of the tunnels, wasn’t it?”

“You’re right,” he says. “There are many who know about those outer tunnels and have access to them. That room is . . . a decoy of sorts. Something simple, to keep up appearances. But this part?” He gestures around us. “This part is hidden. Only I know how to get here. Well, now you do, too. But I trust you with my life. After all, you’re the one who saved it, remember?”

I don’t respond to that. Instead, I let my gaze wander across the room, taking in the furniture, the polished wood, the soft lighting, the books and art—everything so intentional, so thoughtful.

“When did you even have the time to furnish all of this? And how did you get it down here?” I wonder in awe.

He offers a half-smile. “Let’s just say I’ve had nothing but time. And this . . . I wanted you to like it.”

“What?” I blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

He steps closer, his voice soft. “While I was watching you, waiting for you, I noticed something. You longed for a space that was yours. A quiet, private place you could just . . . be. So, as I built this, I kept that in mind. I hoped you’d find it comforting. That you’d want to spend time here.”

My cheeks flush, and I quickly look away. “You never actually told me,” I whisper. “When did you see me for the first time?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his smile. Then he leans in, his lips brushing close to my ear.

“There’s no such thing as a first time,” he murmurs. “Not when my soul has known you forever.”

He wraps his arms around me, and for a moment, I surrender to it. Without the weight of rituals or secrets, this is the version of him I wish were real—gentle, loyal, kind.

Exactly the way I want him to be.

Ah, but what a nice dream this is. I wish this could be my reality. The warmth from his body transfers to mine, and a deep sense of comfort settles inside of me.

“Why don’t you paint something?” he suggests, leading me back into the small studio and gesturing for me to sit in the chair at the center.

I glance around, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer amount of art supplies. “I’ve only ever done sketches,” I admit hesitantly. “I’ve never used paints. Pencils were easier to hide,” I add in a quieter voice. “Paints leave traces. I never had the money—or the freedom.”

He says nothing, just walks over and places a box of pencils in my hands. “Then sketch. Start there.”

I nod, settling into the chair and clutching the pencil. “But I don’t know what I should sketch.”

“I have an idea,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Sketch me.”

Before I can respond, he crosses the room and sits on the sofa, already posing. I take a breath and touch pencil to canvas, focusing on the outline, letting my hand move with careful strokes.

But when I look up for reference, something’s off.

His tie is gone.

I blink. I’m sure he was wearing one just a moment ago.

Trying not to overthink it, I return to my sketch and add more detail. The next time I glance up, my pencil stills.

His coat is off.

“What are you doing, Sin?” I ask, my voice wavering.

He smirks. “True artists appreciate the naked form best.”

“Um . . . yes, but—” I stammer as he slips out of his waistcoat, then his shirt. Now bare-chested, he sits still, as if this is entirely normal.

My eyes widen when I see it again: that same intricate symbol carved into the skin above his heart, and within it, my initial.

It’s the same mark I saw in the other dream.