Page 8 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

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Cressida stared at the painted Juno-Jupiter door panel Benedict exited through.

Her pulse thudded dully in her head.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t .

Cressida couldn’t breathe. She feared if she let so much as a single thought free in her mind, she’d break down, collapse, and never recover.

“He doesn’t know me,” she whispered.

Which meant he’d purchased Cressida, and he’d done so because he’d taken her for an actual whore.

Her mind filled with all the words he’d uttered while they made love.

“…It will work because your body was made for my cock. It craves it. You crave it…”

From the moment Benedict entered these wicked rooms, everything he’d said had been part of an act.

“Does my innocent girl want to feel my mouth on her?”

His reassurances. “…Don’t be afraid, little love…”

His very praise. “You are so beautiful, sweet…”

His every utterance—now that she had a clear head and shattered heart—made all too much sense.

“…Tell me you want to come, love. Tell me it’s my cock and fingers you want stroking your quim…”

…“I’m still going to fuck you the entire night through…”

His every endearment.

“…little love…”

“…sweetheart…”

“…ma petite siren…”

All of it.

A sharp ache settled behind her ribs.

He’d believed her to be a skilled courtesan merely pretending she was a virgin.

She’d suffered all manner of hurt in her life, but realizing the gentleman whom she admired, respected, and loved nearly forever, and who’d made love to her in both gentle and mind-shattering ways, had no clue as to her identity, and still didn’t, was a new pain unlike any other.

An uncontrollable tremor overtook her body, so violent her teeth chattered.

To Benedict, Cressida might as well have been any other lover, or any other whore.

Cressida made the mistake of letting herself inhale too deeply through her nose and instantly regretted it because then she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

Her breaths came harder, faster, in a too-prompt succession, each one a painful, ragged gasp.

Exhaling proved an even more excruciating chore. Her body shook with the force it took to expel air from her tightly constricted lungs.

Anguish brought her crumpling to her knees, leaving her face to face with the bed in the same way she had done as a girl when reciting her nightly prayers and sending her requests skyward to God.

Only, as a grown woman who’d been emotionally decimated, Cressida now knew with absolute surety—there was no God.

A sob tore from her chest, and she caught the end of that misery in her fist, fighting her tears with everything she had. If she gave in and allowed herself to cry as she wanted, she’d never be able to stop. And if she couldn’t stop, she’d be trapped in this hellish place and in an even more hellish nightmare.

One made all the worse by the fact that it was, in fact, her reality.

“Stop,” Cressida harshly ordered herself to some restraint. “Don’t do this now. Not here.”

Yes. It’d be far better to wait until you return home and wallow in your misery before a triumphant Stanley and his baroness.

That thought wrenched another bitter sob from Cressida’s throat.

“Stop. Stop. Stop. You have to s-stop,” she pleaded with herself.

Through her sorrow came her nursemaid’s familiar guidance. Breathe, girl. You focus on breathing because that’s all you can control .

Trudy first gave Cressida that advice when Cressida learned her beloved mother had died. She’d been besieged by such sorrow, she’d been sure her heart was attacking her.

Breathe, girl. You focus on breathing because that’s all you can control .

Steadied some, Cressida buried her face in the mattress—the white silk sheets she and Benedict made love upon—repeatedly—were still warm with the heat left by their bodies.

Her lower lip quivered.

They also happened to be the same satin sheets Benedict looked upon with utter horror and revulsion.

Her chest hitched.

Moments ago? Hours ago?

Her teeth began to chatter and her body broke out into a cold sweat.

It appeared her wise old friend happened to be wrong about something after all—this time Cressida had no control over anything. Not even her own breath.

She darted panicked eyes around the room.

She had to get out of here, but where to go? The moment she returned home , her brother and his wife would be there, both eager and ready to hand her over to some ancient duke, who’d certainly bought whatever debt Stanley built—an impossible sum.

Resentment and fury grew in the place where pain previously only existed, and Cressida feasted on that white-hot anger. From it, she found strength—a strength she desperately needed to survive. “And what will you do after having these debts resolved, brother?” she thought to herself. “Go spend through even more money.” In the end, Cressida’s sacrifice would be for naught.

As much as she wished to run and keep on running to some impossible place that didn’t exist, a far-off land where her brother could never find her, the fact remained she didn’t have that luxury. For Trudy’s sake, Cressida needed to return.

Cressida didn’t have any luxuries; her beloved friend and former nursemaid, Trudy, had even less.

Cressida needed to return for no other reason than because Trudy wouldn’t survive there on her own, and Cressida would sooner slice her own limbs off than leave the old woman.

Focus on Trudy. As long as she did, Cressida was in control of something and that kept her stable.

Armed with an actual purpose, Cressida managed to steady herself.

Cressida didn’t have to marry the man Stanley and his baroness had selected for her. There’d been plenty of times in the dead of night, with Stanley at one of his clubs and his goon sleeping off the cheap spirits he’d imbibed, when Cressida and Trudy had plotted ways to get themselves out from under the baron’s thumb.

But this time? They truly had no choice. She and Trudy darned socks and had done so for years. Granted, they’d only made pennies. But after Cressida’s latest life heartbreak, this time at the hands of Benedict Adamson, the Earl of Wakefield, there couldn’t be anything worse.

They’d find a way to scrape by.

No, you won’t, and worse, you can’t.

Not even Cressida’s inner-self would allow her a reprieve.

She shut her eyes tightly.

No respectable employer would bring on a woman of Trudy’s advanced age. Between her tired eyes and life-weathered hands, the former nursemaid couldn’t work in most of the basic ways she once had.

There was no way out for Cressida. There was especially no way out for Trudy. There was no way out for any woman. They were trapped.

Every breath she drew came inordinately loud in her ears.

She couldn’t stand being here one minute longer. She didn’t want to return home. But if she stayed here one second longer, she’d shatter into a million pieces.

Just as Benedict had done, she hastily rushed about the room, pillaging her garments.

Unlike his wrinkled but still respectable articles, Cressida found herself staring at outrageously indecent pieces she could not don—at least not again, and definitely not in the light of day.

Her frantic gaze clapped on the armoire across the room.

Cressida made a beeline for it and tossed the doors open. Sure enough, the garment she’d arrived in lay hung within the cupboard. There was also a folded package. She hesitated a moment. It contained her name, or at least it contained the fictional name she’d gone by. Whatever it was belonged to her.

With unsteady fingers, she ripped open the package and revealed a gown—a day dress to be exact. Unlike the scandalous one she’d been made to wear last night, this piece was a respectable muslin dress, striped blue and white with a modest neckline.

Amusement built inside her throat. It appeared the Earl of Dynevor gave parting gifts to the women who took part in his wicked games here at his debauched club.

Forget the tears of before, it was all she could do to keep from tossing her head back and roaring with hilarity.

Cressida hurled the gown to the floor and stepped on it as she reached inside to collect her tattered and aged articles.

She reached for her shoes and then stopped. At the bottom of the armoire, there sat a pair of functional leather boots—functional and brand new. Cressida closed her eyes, hating herself for being so pathetic and pitiful as to kneel down and take those precious shoes.

She needed them.

She darted her gaze back to the gown. She also needed funds. Cressida found herself looking over her shoulder to the velvet purses Wakefield left behind. Payment for a whore was different than a parting gift, she told herself, as she gathered up the dress left by Lord Dynevor. At least this could be sold. At least she hadn’t sold herself for it.

After washing herself with the basin of clean water and cake of soap that’d been set out at some point, she dressed. Before she could talk herself out of it, Cressida recovered Dynevor’s gift and held it close like the cherished lifeline it was.

She paused and looked at herself the mirror. Her haunted gaze stared, reflected back in the windowpane in the bevel mirror. “ You are so beautiful… You are a treasure… ” How sincerely he’d uttered his praise. They now whispered and danced around her mind like the greatest taunt.

Cressida pulled a face. “What an utter fool you are.” The fact remained; the man who’d taken her virginity hadn’t been cruel or unkind. He’d been gentle at first. But his lack of restraint and the way in which he’d made love to her later in the night made sense.

He hadn’t believed she’d really been a virgin, but even so, he’d still put her desire first before his own. His had been a gift in its own way—the greatest gift. He hadn’t been violent or selfish or cruel as any other man who’d bought her might have been.

Her throat wobbled.

Selfishly, however, she just wanted more. She’d wanted the ultimate dream. She’d wanted it all to be real.

Again, tears threatened. Cressida gave her head a hard shake. She couldn’t afford to think about him and what could have been. No, it’d only ever been what she’d wanted it to be. There’d be plenty of time enough later to weep.

Cressida remembered to don her mask. Then, hurrying to the door, she left just as Benedict did—without taking another look at the scene of their sin.

The moment she was in the hall, Cressida looked left and right. Recalling the path she’d taken the night prior, she continued on that exact path. She concentrated on the directions in her mind, going over and over the layout—anything to keep her from thinking about Benedict.

The violent sound of raised voices stopped Cressida in her tracks.

She frowned.

No, those weren’t just raised voices…

Distinct shouting spilled from the western hall, all the way down to the east corridor. Outrage leant that deep baritone that would follow Cressida forever an even deeper timbre.

Benedict.

Yet again, she came to, if not see, witness a new side of him—enraged.

Cressida shivered.

Many, many, years ago, she’d learned a vital lesson: when one heard violent shouting, run. Run as far away and as fast as one could. One second of hesitation cost a woman, and the outcome? It wasn’t anything good, but, instead, everything destructive and painful.

Even with that life’s experience ingrained into her, Cressida could not bring herself to leave. The tumultuous argument between Benedict and what sounded like Lord Dynevor strangely called to Cressida more than escape. Cressida needed to know what Benedict now said about her.

Are you sure you really want to know? That same jeering inner voice of before mocked Cressida.

She’d been a coward many times in her life, until she’d eventually figured out, hiding from the truth or pain didn’t save her from suffering.

Cressida sneaked another look about and found herself still alone.

Lord Dynevor had guards everywhere. With that reminder fresh in her mind, guiding her movements, she proceeded cautiously.

As she did, she continued sneaking glances, watching for the eyes she knew existed inside The Devil’s Den, until she reached the end of the hall that directly led to the quarrel unfolding.

“Goddamn it!” Benedict was shouting. “You said the women in the auction were…”

Lord Dynevor raised his voice loud enough for Cressida to gather some of what he was saying, but he was still not quite so volatile as to demonstrate the self-control he currently had over Benedict.

“Do you know what you’ve done to me? The danger you’ve put me in?” Wakefield raged.

Cressida leaned in closer.

Wait, did the Earl of Wakefield believe he was in some kind of danger? For a minute, she believed he was joking, and Cressida nearly laughed her first laugh in longer than she could recall.

“Or maybe that was part of your plan.” Wakefield raised his voice again to a near roar. “A means to control m…”

Staggered, she drew back. My God, he is… serious .

Him, the same gentleman who’d taken her virginity and, as he’d said, possibly gotten her with child was worried about himself.

She’d spent all these years lauding him as some kind of hero in her head, only to find him very much like every other man in every way that mattered.

She felt empty, scraped clean by sorrow.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Gasping, Cressida spun.

Her stomach dropped like a stone.

The guard, Mauley.

His features were as impassive as they’d been last night. Cressida wondered if he was capable of either smiling or frowning. In truth, Mauley needn’t move a facial muscle, not when his silvery glacial-blue eyes contained all the emotion he needed. In this case, his gaze glinted with suspicion.

Perhaps if Cressida weren’t on the cusp of an emotional collapse, she might have feared him.

In this moment, he represented salvation.

“I need to get out of here,” she said, barely holding herself together. Please . “I need to leave. C-can you help me?”

Throughout his continued silence, Cressida’s agitation redoubled. Her fingers tingled and a cold sweat slicked her spine and palms. Her lungs began to close in.

Mauley passed an assessing stare over Cressida’s frame. A light quaking had already settled in her limbs, and she fought to quell that telltale sign of her weakness.

She anticipated his rejection, as she’d come to expect nothing else from men and life.

“Follow me,” he said, startling Cressida.

Maybe there was more than an empty shell who watched over this place.

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

Mauley gave no indication he’d heard Cressida express her gratitude. While he escorted her from the hall, nothing changed in the somber man’s demeanor. He remained as aloof as he’d been during all their brief interactions, but for one difference—the guard had transformed into her guardian.

Likely, he didn’t see it that way and wouldn’t, but for Cressida, anyone who could spring her from this place was next to godly.

When they reached the end of their destination, Cressida stopped. He’d not taken her to the entrance she’d arrived at last evening.

Dumbly, she looked around the kitchen. Uniformed servants who may as well have been plucked from the king’s place—chefs, cooks, bakers—all bustled about. Any other time, she’d have marveled at her surroundings. Early on, when her brother let their staff go to spare expenses, he’d ordered Cressida to cook and bake in their stead. It hadn’t taken long for her to realize the kitchens were a sanctuary, a place of escape for the simple fact her brother would never show his face down there.

“Sit here.” Mauley grunted. “A meal will help.”

She distantly recognized, as if staring at somebody else from afar, herself sitting and a plate being presented before her.

A plate of eggs and sausage links and buttered biscuits.

Her mouth watered.

Oh, my God . When was the last time she’d had food such as this? When was the last time she’d had anything other than gruel or stale bread? Any other time, she’d devour every last bite.

Yet everything betrayed her because at the prospect of swallowing anything, her stomach heaved.

Cressida pushed the plate away and sat in wait for her carriage.