Page 25 of Sinister

I stiffen, my body once more on alert.

He lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to take it home with you. I would not want you to get in trouble again.”

I look from his face to the small jar. It’s tempting. But I’ve already seen what temptation does to me—it only brings more pain.

Yet there is another question that plagues my mind.

“How did you know I would be hurt?” I ask suspiciously.

“I did not.”

“Then why carry this with you?”

He presses his lips together. “I was aware of the possibility, though I hoped it would not be the case. I know what your kind does to its women,” he spits out in disgust.

“My kind?” My brows go up. “If my kind is so repulsive to you, then please leave me alone.”

“I did not word that right. I apologize.”

“Apology not accepted.”

The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “I suppose I deserved that.” He lets out a dry chuckle.

This man . . . He is strange.

“You do not have to accept my apology, or even like me.” He pauses. “For now,” he adds. “But please take this. It will take away some of the pain and prevent infection. Apply it to any open wound.”

Laughter bubbles in my throat. “And what about the wounds inside?” My words are weighted, heavy with meaning.

His expression darkens. “I wish I could help with those, too. Maybe someday I will . . .”

He speaks in code, and I am far too weak and in pain to try to understand him.

I bring my gaze back to the jar, my resolve wavering.

After what feels like forever, I reach out and take the ointment, careful so even my gloved hands don’t touch his.

“Good,” he murmurs.

I place the tin jar in the pocket of my dress. “And what do you want in exchange for this?”

His gaze meets mine, unwavering.

“What do I want?” he repeats, his voice almost a caress. He steps closer. Then shakes his head and steps back. Without another word, he turns and leaves.

When he is almost at the door, the echo of his voice travels to me, low, decisive.

“We will meet again, Petra. Perhaps then I will tell you what I want.”

I stumble forward, confused. “W-what? Why? When?”

The door opens, and he steps out. But not without leaving me with more cryptic words.

“Wait for my sign.”

8

PETRA