Page 19 of Sinister

I move one step back to avoid his touch. Even through layers of material, it feels far too intimate.

“Let me pay for it,” he offers again in the same kind manner.

A flare of irritation rises in my chest, and I clench my jaw.

“No one has to know.”

“I will know,” I insist.

“Ah, but isn’t that precisely what you desire?” His lip curves upward in a daring smile.

My nostrils flare in annoyance.

It isn’t just the book. It isn’t just the fact that he won’t take no for an answer. It’s the fact that he likely knows what happens to women who stray in my community—everyone knows.

No, it’s more than that.

It is him.

The way he stands there so confidently, so unburdened by rules drilled into me since birth. The way he looks sharp, composed, free.

“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice clipped. “You never will.”

He doesn’t argue. That, more than anything, unsettles me.

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t and likely never will.” He lets the words settle, as though acknowledging a truth neither of us can change. “But I do understand one thing—curiosity.”

My heart beats faster, that one word settling somewhere deep inside of me: somewhere it seeks to hide, somewhere it seeks to thrive.

“You have that,” he continues, his voice quiet but firm. “Enough to stand here and argue with me. Enough to think about it, even though you shouldn’t. Enough to want something you know you aren’t allowed to have.”

He is right. And I hate that he is right.

I flick my gaze back toward Mrs. Jenkins, whose sharp voice still rings through the store, keeping the other girls occupied.

I have little time. If I get caught—if I am seen⁠—

He must notice my hesitation. “Take it,” he says again, softer this time.

I hesitate, truly hesitate, for the first time. “Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Something flickers in his expression—pity, amusement? The former is more likely. “If only one thing were free in this world, it should be knowledge. Take it, read it, and learn from it.”

I glance at the title again. His words seem measured, thoughtful.

“You speak as if you already know everything.”

He chuckles, the sound oddly melodious. “Everything? I wish.” Another laugh. It’s not loud, so as not to draw attention to us. A part of me is grateful for it. “But I do know something about this book.” He pauses. “I will pay for it. It is yours to do with as you please now.”

Before I can object again, he turns to leave, but not before adding something else: something oddly foreboding.

“Hide it well, Petra. Don’t get caught.”

His steps echo through the shop as he briefly stops by the counter and exchanges a few short words with the bookseller. His departure is announced by the chiming bell at the door.

I stand there unmoving, holding the book but not thinking about it.

I never told him my name . . .