Page 77 of Sigma

“Last time, Gina didn’t have a goal or a desire except to cause pain.” Valentine holds Duke’s eyes. “Kyrie was never getting off that island alive. Neither was Gina, for that matter. She was batshit crazy and wanted one thing and one thing only: to hurt me, and to hurt Kyrie to get at me.” He gestures at Lear’s computer. “This is different. There’s a chance to end this without bloodshed, and I’ll take it.”

“Even if it means you two being the blood that gets shed?” Duke says.

Valentine looks to me, and I stand beside him, hand in hand. “If that’s what it takes,” I say.

Valentine nods in agreement. “We’ve had a taste of peace since we finished off Cain. I don’t know about you guys, but I like it. And if we can end this without anyone else dying, to me, that’s the best possible outcome.”

I drop my eyes. “Hear hear.”

Valentine wraps an arm around me. “Don’t go there, Key. You did what you had to do, what you felt was right in the moment.”

I can only shake my head and sigh. Somehow, those four deaths haunt me in a way the other lives I’ve taken don’t.

“Let’s work this plan out and get moving,” Harris says.

And so, we set to planning.

I’m coming, Rinna.

Mama’s coming.

15

The Man Beneath the Monster

He watches me dress, and his greedy hungry eyes do not miss a single movement of my body. He himself makes no move to touch his clothing, merely standing there with his hands at his sides, cock standing up flat against his belly, straining and massive.

I hold his gaze as I dress—a challenge, perhaps. Underwear first. Bra. Leggings. Tunic, belt. My hair is still in the braid he put it in, tied with twine.

Our food is untouched.

I hesitate, before leaving. “You know what?” I say, sitting at the table. “No. I’m hungry.” His usual lunch preference is laid out on the table: peasant bread, wedges of cheese, folded slices of roast beef, turkey, and ham, fruit, honey, crackers, and nuts, washed down with his favorite beer, the small-batch Belgian. “I’m sure you have work to do. I’ll see you in the tower later.”

I dig in, doing my best to ignore him. It’s not hard, once I’m eating—hunger takes over, eclipsing even my still-raging lust.

He snorts, shakes his head. “Incorrigibly proud, aren’t you?”

“I’m no one’s plaything, Apollo.”

“I had no thought that you were.”

“Bullshit.”

He lets out a sigh which sounds suspiciously long-suffering, and dresses himself, unhurried, each movement elegant and languorous. “It’s not bullshit, Corinna.”

“It is.” I crack open the bottle of beer and pour myself a glass.

Once again dressed and composed, Apollo sits opposite me and breaks a piece of bread off of the loaf, matches it with a chunk of hard white aged cheddar and a slice of meat. “How so is it bullshit, then?”

“I think this whole thing is a game.” I gesture at him with a piece of melon. “You’re lonely. You have no one in your life who gives a shit about you. No one. Everyone who knows you, who’s close to you—as in, proximity, not emotionally—is paid to be there.”

His face darkens, and his chewing slows; I’m in very dangerous waters, now. “Measure your words carefully, Corinna Roth.”

“Oh, I am.” I meet his eyes. “I’m telling the truth, and you know it. You just don’t like it.”

“The truth as you see it.”

“Wrong. The truth as it is. There’s only one truth, Apollo. Your opinion, your inability to see or recognize the truth doesn’t change the essential nature of that truth.”