Page 166 of Sinister

48

PETRA

For a while, it’s hard to form any coherent thoughts as I just lie back and relax in Sin’s arms.

Only images swirl in my mind: Sin kneeling between my legs and hitching up my skirt, kissing and licking the throbbing nub of my clit, one hand kneading my breast while the other clamped my mouth shut with surprising force . . .

My cheeks warm at this erotic recollection, and I feel myself getting wet again.

But if Sin can sense the second wave of desire breaking over me, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he plants a chaste kiss on my forehead.

His heart beats steadily under my ear, and his breath is warm against my face. His fingers trail lazily across my shoulders and hips.

It all feels like a dream.

Suddenly, a voice just outside the door announces, “Sin, we’re turning in for the night!”

We both almost jump up while Sin hastily shouts, “Goodnight, Mom!” so that Lisa doesn’t just come barging in on our intimate scene.

Of course, she doesn’t seem like the type of woman who’d do that, and my assumption is proven correct when she says, “All right, you two, don’t stay up too late!” and walks away to her bedroom.

In a few more minutes, the other sounds of the house die down, too, and a cozy silence spreads over the rooms.

“I think they’re all asleep,” Sin says to me while I adjust my hair in the mirror opposite his bed.

Something makes me ask, “Are you sure about Marie?”

“Oh yeah,” Sin replies easily. “That baby sleeps like a log.” He scrunches up his nose to further underline his disgust at his sister’s uncouth ways, but I’m not fooled.

“Okay, I’m ready. Lead the way!” I reply in a bright yet brittle voice. I have never snuck around after dark in someone else’s house, so I’m understandably nervous.

But Sin slips ahead of me with purposeful strides, while I struggle to tiptoe quietly enough.

Knowing my luck, there’s always the risk of walking into some antique chest of drawers or knocking over a Ming dynasty vase that turns out to be worth millions.

Thankfully, we reach the basement stairs without any such accidents.

“Watch your step,” Sin calls out behind him as we start descending the slightly dusty wooden planks. The dimly lit basement of the Arnoult home feels even more daunting than the crypt.

The walls are lit up by burnished lighting that makes the whole space look somewhat . . . ancient.

“Just how old is your house, Sin?”

“It was built sometime in the 1860s but was renovated and expanded in the 1950s. Multiple generations of Arnoults have lived here,” he adds with a chuckle.

“That’s quite the history,” I murmur.

As we step inside, Sin swings his phone’s light across the cramped space, illuminating shelves lined neatly with file boxes, leatherbound journals, and faded documents.

“Not only that, but people have been quite dedicated to keeping the history,” Sin says casually, pulling out a file box at random and going through its contents. “There are several records here dating back to the nineteenth century.”

We start digging through the boxes, sorting papers, and flipping through dusty volumes.

The sheer number of leatherbound titles stowed away in this area makes me think of libraries. Something catches my eye, and I pull out a large, worn journal, its cover embossed with intricate designs.

When I flip through the pages, I realize that this is a book of engravings, a collection of what look to be really rare pictures.

“Oooh, that looks interesting!” Sin chimes in from behind me. He’s been peering at the pages over my shoulder.