Page 63 of Sinister

“This mentor of yours⁠—”

“Enough about him,” Sin interrupts gently. “Let’s go to my office. We’ll have all the time in the world to talk there.”

I nod, still dazed, and follow him through a maze of winding staircases until we reach a room on the third floor. It’s enormous. The moment he opens the door, I realize it’s more than an office; it’s where he lives.

“This is your study?” I ask in wonder.

He chuckles. “Ah, I’ve been caught. Yes, it is. And most nights, I sleep here, too. Can’t be too far from my research.”

“It is a nice room,” I murmur. And it is. Warm, lit, inviting.

“Come, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?” he offers.

“Yes. Thank you. That’s . . . very thoughtful.”

For a moment, I forget everything—our strange history, the fact that he once sent me a piece of his flesh.

The word erupts in my mind.

Flesh.

I glance at him, scanning quickly. He’s turned away, sleeves rolled up as he prepares the tea. Something feels off.

Not just that he lives here, but that he greeted me as if he knew I was coming.

“Sin,” I call.

He half turns. “So now you can say my name.”

I look away. “It is your name. What else am I supposed to call you?”

A smile spreads across his face. “I may hate it, but hearing it from your lips . . . perhaps I could start loving it.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I mumble.

“Things like what?”

“Like that. It’s not proper.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but neither is you being here in the middle of the night. How did you get away?”

“I climbed out of my window,” I admit. “Ran across town to get here.”

“Without your veil,” he adds.

I reach for it instinctively, my fingers brushing bare skin.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I thought people would find it strange, a veiled figure walking alone at this hour.”

“You did good, Petra,” he says gently, bringing over the tea. “Very good indeed. Such a brave girl.”

I flush under his praise, ashamed to like it, but I do. I’m just about to tell him why I came when I notice his arm in the light.

His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, and there, just above his wrist, is a wound. Fresh. Healing. And the exact size of the flesh that had been sent to me.

I gasp.

“Is that . . . ?” I point.