Page 157 of Sinister

Every time Leah opens her mouth, the aunt’s sharp glance shuts her down.

We sit for tea while my brother continues barking orders. Apparently, the footmen have been sent by Mr. Snowden with goods and preparations for the party.

My mother appears a moment later with a lemon cake, her specialty, and offers it around. The aunt eagerly snatches a piece and begins shoveling it into her mouth with unseemly gusto.

Leah, however, hesitates. She stares at the cake with something akin to longing, but her hands remain folded.

“You should have some,” I say gently, taking a bite myself to show her it’s all right.

“Maybe just a little,” she murmurs. She barely finishes two bites before she stiffens in her seat and quietly asks where the restroom is. I point her toward the back hallway and watch her rush from the room, troubled.

“Is she all right?” I ask her aunt.

The older woman snorts. “She’s just being fussy. Probably expected something more to her liking—what she’s used to. A little spoiled, that one.” Her tone is clipped and sharp, clearly meant to remind me of our lower status compared to the Snowdens.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Already, I dread the prolonged company of this woman. I wait until Leah returns, making sure she looks all right before I excuse myself and prepare to flee upstairs.

But before I can escape, my mother intercepts me with a box in her arms.

“A new dress,” she says, handing it over. “For the party.”

“I have one already,” I murmur.

“You will wear this one,” she replies with finality. And just like that, the conversation is over.

Back in my room, I don’t even look at the dress. I simply toss the box into the closet and change into my nightclothes. It’s barely past noon, and yet I’m exhausted—tired of this house, of this family, of the Snowdens and their constant presence.

Every day now, someone from that house stops by, often Mr. Snowden himself, to meet with my father. I try to stay out of their way, but I’m not always so lucky. And with the engagement party looming ever closer, there are more dinners, more events, more obligations.

It’s suffocating.

There is only one escape I can rely on.

I slip into bed, pull the blanket up to my chin, and close my eyes, desperate for sleep. And as I begin to drift off, my thoughts latch onto the one person who has come to mean something else entirely.

Sin.

I want to go back to that dreamworld. Back to him. Because if there’s no place for joy in the waking world, perhaps I can find it in the world I’ve come to crave—the one where he waits for me.

A masculine scent wraps around me, grounding me in the place I know I belong. I turn my head slightly, and our eyes meet. He presses a soft kiss to my brow, arms tightening around my body like he’s afraid to let go.

Oh, how I wish I could stay here forever, curled against him, untouched by the world beyond this dream.

“I wish I never had to wake up again,” I whisper. “That I could stay like this with you for all eternity.”

“You really mean that?” he asks, his voice laced with something between disbelief and hope.

“I do,” I say, nuzzling into his chest. “You, books, painting . . . what else could I possibly want from life?”

“Then say the word,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my hair. “Say the word, Petra, and I’ll make it happen. I’ll give you that life. Because you deserve it. You deserve nothing less than everything.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so,” I reply with a sigh. “Things have been getting more chaotic at home. And I don’t know what the future holds.”

He pulls back just enough to see my face, his brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

“My brother’s engagement. This new connection with the Snowden family. It makes me uneasy.” I pause, unsure how to articulate the dread coiling in my chest. “I can’t say for sure why, but there’s something about Mr. Snowden that I just don’t trust.”

“You should stay away from him,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Snowden is not a good man.”