Page 194 of Sinister

Of course, there are more paintings on the walls around us.

The haunting craftsmanship cannot detract from the horrific content of each mural: the brutal rituals that we had read about in the Arnoults’ basement. I am intrigued by some of the expressions on the face of what looks like Arnoult the First, who seems to be leading each of these rituals.

In the paintings, he looks foreboding and sinister, a supernatural power looming over mortal weaklings around him.

There’s no mercy in that face, no remorse.

“Look at this,” Sin says in a somewhat impressed manner, pointing at one particularly vivid painting that depicts a family with terrified expressions.

“The rictus of horror is still so fresh they could have been murdered yesterday,” he says in a marveling voice, yet I can’t find fault with that.

Over and over again, the mural artist—it must be the one painter, because of the singular style evident in all the paintings we have seen so far—has proven their keen eye for human despair and desperation in various degrees.

“It’s like they’re frozen in their last moments forever,” I add when Sin falls silent, probably looking for the right words.

Sin nods in vehement agreement, but I’m already walking toward the far wall.

Beside it is an altar, its surface covered in layers of dust and old, crumpled offerings—dried flowers, broken trinkets, pages ripped from books, and what looks like a lock of blond hair.

I shiver without noticing, because the “shrine” is just that creepy. And more importantly, was this altar a part of Arnoult’s dark ceremonies? Were wailing, masked victims brought here to be killed?

I shake my head; it seems to physically buzz with a swarm of difficult questions swirling.

“This place feels so spooky, Sin,” I whisper hoarsely.

The next instant, arms have settled on my shoulder, and I’m turned around.

“Don’t be scared, Petra,” Sin tells me in a low voice laced with an overpowering sensuality. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

One of his hands sweeps back my hair and gently cradles the nape of my neck, while the other slides to my hips, gently clasping them.

As has been happening as of late, my body melts at his touch, and I lean into his palms, taking a deep sniff of his skin, the woodsy, citrusy smell underlined with notes of bitter pine, and he turns my chin toward him.

As we kiss, I sigh loudly, not caring who can hear in this abode of the dead, not caring that we are probably committing some sort of sacrilege.

The kiss deepens, with Sin gently pushing me back against the wall behind me, even as the whispering shadows of the crypt wrap around us like a thick fog.

It’s true that we’ve made rather disturbing discoveries about Arnoult and his followers, but in this moment, the rest of the world fades away, as Sin’s hand slides down my body, gently stroking the swell of my breasts and the padded roundness of my hips.

He leans ever closer, taking great care not to jostle me or the baby, and I can feel the hardness of him pushing against my knees, so I part my legs, gladly, because the ache between them has grown urgent and more intense in the last five minutes or so.

Damn, pregnant women must be jumping their husbands all the time, my inner voice cooly remarks in my head, but I’m too distracted to care about her snarky comments just now.

We kiss desperately, our hands roaming all over each other’s bodies.

In a daring gesture, I cup the bulge in Sin’s pants as he slips his tongue into my mouth.

He groans loudly before pushing his hips into my palm.

His fingers are fumbling with the stockings I have stretched over my inflated belly, and I shimmy out of them to help him.

In the next moment, his fingers are teasing my wet folds while he keeps nibbling and licking my lips. I moan again, my fingers tangling in his hair.

“Petra,” he murmurs against my lips, the sound sending a thrill coursing through me. “This feels so good . . . You have no idea.”

His voice breaks over that last word as I rub him harder.

“I think I might,” I reply breathlessly, feeling bold inside the hushed crypt.