Mira. Oh, Mira.
When the tears ran out, Father Lucciano’s robes were soaked through, my face was swollen, and I could barely crack my eyelids open. My nose was running, and I wiped it inelegantly on my nightgown. It was also soaked by tears, sweat, and snot.
Lovely.
It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered now that I’d remembered everything. Three days. Three days without medication was the sweet spot. The day when I remembered the exact events that had led up to my incarceration here in excruciating detail. Details I was always grateful to drown out.
What had happened to Mira.
“You were dreaming about your friend,” Father Lucciano said quietly.
I nodded. “Because you didn’t give me my medication.”
“Does the medication keep the nightmares away?” he asked.
We were sitting side by side on the floor, leaning against my bed. My legs were crossed, bare and scratched up in places. I had a hundred old scars, slices I used to make in my skin when I felt like I was truly losing my mind, before they took everything sharp away from me.
Now I felt Father Lucciano studying them. They were silvery in the moonlight. He had his long legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankle. His legs were strong, the muscles clearly defined even through his dark trousers. If I were strong like that, could I have escaped here with Mira?
“It keeps the memories away. They aren’t nightmares,” I told him tiredly.
“What happened to your friend?” he asked after a long moment.
“Didn’t you read it in my file? She died.”
“I’m asking you what really happened, not what’s written in that folder.”
I thought about telling him, only for a moment, before letting the urge fade away. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust anyone. He worked here at Hallow Hall. He was on the same side as Pavol, Benedict, and Vargas. He wouldn’t believe me, even if he wasn’t really a demon. Why would anyone believe me over those upstanding pillars of the community? Even I wouldn’t believe me.
“Why didn’t you give me my medication?” I asked instead. “What do you want from me?”
He turned toward me, and I felt the weight of his eyes on my skin.
“What do you think I want from you?” His deep voice sent heat billowing through me.
I risked a glance at his face and found it right there. So close I could smell every note of his unique scent: ashes, incense, pine, and sweet, fresh air.
His gaze traced over my face, taking me in. I didn’t know how to handle it. No one had looked at me like that in a very long time. Years. Like I wasn’t crazy. Like I was... beautiful?
I blinked and quickly glanced away, my salt-burned cheeks tight. Then his hand descended onto my leg, and I jumped.
“What are you . . . ?”
“This can’t start again,” he said firmly. His long fingers traced the scars on my thighs. “If it does... we will have a problem.”
He traced the cobwebs of silvery scars on my legs, sending my knees weak. It had been so long since someone had touched me with anything other than firm professionalism or sadistic disinterest.
But my own personal devil’s touch was warm and insistent. Not just a touch. A caress. All the hair on my arms rose, and I shivered. Electricity seemed to hum under my skin at that touch. It was him. He was magnetic. The ultimate temptation.
He wants you. He’s going to devour your soul.
The voice in my head had been quiet all day, and now she piped up. My angel.
“Too bad. My soul is mine to keep,” I murmured, answering the voice without worrying how odd it sounded.
Father Lucciano’s hand flattened on my thigh, high up, where the skin got softer, and his fingers dug in for a moment, squeezing.
“I have no use for your soul. I’ve collected enough to see me through.”