Page 73 of Sinister

He asked for one kiss. This—this isn’t a kiss. This is possession.

The thought jolts through me like ice. I begin to return to myself, realizing—this isn’t right. My fingers are still curled into his shirt. Slowly, I loosen them. I press against his chest.

“Please,” I whisper. “Let go.”

He doesn’t.

He swallows my plea, his mouth devouring mine again and again, claiming me with every breath I try to take.

“No,” I gasp, louder now. I push against him with everything I have.

He stumbles back. I stagger, breathless, eyes wide, lips tingling and swollen. He looks just as wrecked—his shirt rumpled, his lips red, his gaze locked on me in awe.

“You said one kiss,” I say, barely above a whisper.

But he only smiles. “Ah, and that, my dear Petra, that wasn’t even one kiss.”

I blink. “What?”

“That was only a quarter of a kiss.”

“You’re insane,” I whisper, trembling.

“No, I’m not,” he says softly. “You still owe me three-quarters.”

“This isn’t what we agreed to. I don’t even know why I agreed at all. I—” I step back, frantic. “You⁠—”

He rises from the chair. His eyes don’t leave me. There’s something unhinged in that gaze, yes, but also something vulnerable. Something raw. Desire, maybe. But what do I know of desire?

“Don’t come any closer,” I warn, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have done any of this. I have to go.”

He doesn’t respond. He just smiles—that infuriating, knowing smile.

“Go back to your safe world, Petra,” he says. “But we both know tonight, it’s my kiss you’ll be dreaming about.”

“Stop,” I whisper.

But to my great shame . . . he’s right.

20

PETRA

PRESENT DAY

After a night filled with much heartburn (both the literal kind because of my you-know-what state and more eerie dreams about that stranger also called Sin), I pull myself out of bed with the express intent of requesting Ms. Matthews to assign me a different partner.

Literally anyone else will do.

It’s not enough that he’s haunting my days with his wicked smile and stupid charm, but now he has to invade my dreams, too? How is it that since that fateful night, I haven’t been able to dream of anything else but him?

Well, it’s him and it’s not, since apparently my brain found it better to center our forbidden romance in the actual Gilded Age.

Not to mention him being a dazzling occult professor and me . . . well, I was just a member of a cult.

Nice, Petra, you just got yourself the plot of a smutty romance.

I grimace and berate myself: Those dreams have been quite steamy, all right. Perhaps not full-on, fuck-your-brains-out type, but close enough.