Page 106 of A Taste like Sin

admire flowers for their beauty—it’s for their fragility, a reminder of the cruel balance he lives by.

“Why would I intervene in the life of the daughter of a monster like Heyworth Thorne?” he wonders.

“It was more advantageous to me if I sat back and watched. I gathered what information I could use to

my benefit, but your safety was not of my concern. I will admit that.”

“So who is he?” I demand, swiping at my mouth. “Will you tell me that much?” But I’m not even

surprised when he shakes his head.

If anything, he knows how to inflict pain with ruthless precision. “I have my suspicions, but the

perpetrator is more powerful than I gave them credit for. They never used the same thug to plant your

gifts.” He pauses, waiting for that revelation to land.

And it does. Like a gut-punch.

“W-What do you mean?”

“They used hired experts, but never the same one twice. When questioned, the men couldn’t name

who hired them—and trust me, I was verypersuasivein my questioning. The one night I finally did

try to intercede, they ceased their little façade entirely.”

“That’s why I never got the fourth present,” I say, ignoring the rest of his statement.

“There’s more. I think whoever is responsible sent the attacker after you. The man with the knife.”

My hand flies to my shoulder, tracing a healed wound through the fabric of my clothing. “The man

who cut me at the hotel? And you never said anything?” I rasp. “Why?

“I had a hunch who it might be, but they are proving harder to nail down, just like your ‘Simon.’

Perhaps they are one and the same? But the more evidence I could use against them, the easier it

would be to assert my influence when I finally unmask them.”

“Even if they killed me?” I remember the fear. The isolation. The desperation. “You didn’t help me.

You let him…”

The world spins and I stagger to the wall, bracing my hands over it. It takes everything I have just to

stay upright. To breathe.

“You let him hurt me,” I choke out. “You left me alone—”

“I didn’t know in advance or I would have stopped it,” he swears. “But I won’t make excuses. I

should have told you.” His tone is so different from the man who has comforted me during

thunderstorms. This time, he doesn’t smooth my hair or comfort me. He doesn’t lend his presence like

an anchor against the darkness clawing its way into my mind. He’s the lightning rod for despair,