Page 27 of Sinister

Yours.

I blink.

Yours?

I know it’s just a customary way to end a letter. But here, without a name, it feels more intimate. More meaningful.

What did he mean by it?

Yours.

The word echoes in my mind, over and over again. But it is not my voice I hear—it is his. A whisper looping in my thoughts.

Yours.

I shake my head, forcing the feeling away. I place the book back on the windowsill, the letter with it.

This is unseemly. I should not even be entertaining this. He is taking too many liberties with me. Liberties I never granted.

I should put an end to this now.

Perhaps I won’t be caught today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But eventually, I will be. And when that day comes, I do not want to face the consequences.

I return to my bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep.

“Sleep,” I command myself.

But no matter how hard I try, my thoughts drift back to the book on the windowsill.

It is the same book as before. The one he bought for me at the bookshop. The one I hid. The one that led to my punishment.

The one I only got halfway through.

If it were another book, I might not care as much. But because it is that book, I need to know. I need to know how it ends.

After what feels like an eternity of tossing and turning, I finally make a decision.

Slipping out of bed, I return to the window and pick up the book.

As per his instructions, I go to the fireplace and toss the letter into the flames, watching as the embers flicker and devour the paper, turning it to ash.

Opening a drawer, I retrieve a candle. Our house is powered by gas, but turning on the lights would make noise, and then everyone would know I was awake.

So I settle for the glow of the fire and the soft flicker of candlelight.

I only leave my seat when the first light of morning seeps through the window. Letting out a yawn, I rise, tidy the room, place the book back on the sill, and slip into bed. Exhaustion pulls at my body, yet sleep remains elusive.

Something gnaws at me.

Eventually, I get back up, take a pen, and turn to the last page I read. In the corner, I write a small note: *Thank you.* Satisfied, I return to bed.

When I wake, the book is gone. No sign remains of anyone having been here. Just like before, I have no idea how he managed to get past the dogs, past the guards, and up to my second-floor window.

Yet, despite the mystery, I still find myself checking the window again the next night. And once more, after darkness falls, I find another book—and another letter.

You have lovely handwriting, Petra. Thank you for gracing me with it. I hope I shall be the object of your writing in the future, too. Read on, my beautiful darling, read on.

And once more, it is signed,