Page 44 of Wicked Believer

“No.” I give a small shake of my chin.

Which only causes him to grumble. He doesn’t like when I don’t take good care of myself. I’mhis, after all.

“No, sir, you mean.”

I close my eyes, a tear escaping. “No, sir,” I whisper, correcting myself, though I’m ... not sure I can handle the thought of him punishing me this evening.

Not after this.

All those people. All those people ...

“Charlotte, please look at me,” he says, sensing my unease.

Reluctantly I tip my chin toward him, and the full force of his beauty hits me. Even now, after everything I’ve been through, beingpinned beneath Lucifer’s gaze, it ... still makes me forget myself. Like nothing else in the world matters.

Nothing except him and me.

He cups my cheek. “What would you have me do? Turn the other cheek to the people who would hurt you? Who would’ve stood by and reveled while they watched you bleed?” His eyes light with fury. He shakes his head, wrinkling his nose as if that isn’t even an option to him.

Nearly as unconscionable as this whole situation is to me.

“No. No, I think not. I haven’t enjoyed torturing a fresh batch of souls this much in ages.” His eyes darken. “I may not have been the one to make them drink the proverbial Kool-Aidthis time,” he emphasizes, “but they deserved everything they got and then some. He certainly seems to agree.” His eyes dart toward the ceiling, and I know that it’s God he’s referring to.

He once told me that it isn’t him who decides where we go in the end.

It’s God, and God only.

“What do you mean?” I ask, sensing there’s something deeper to what he’s saying, but he doesn’t answer me. Not directly, at least.

He sighs, staring past me for a long moment, before finally he says, “Someone needs to send them a message. Punish them for what they did to you.”

For Mark’s role in hurting me. A blatant warning ...

And a declaration of war to whoever else it was who sent the anthrax. That goes without saying. Not that we’ve figured out who that is yet.

I take a shaky, resigned breath, crumpling in on myself. All I can feel is a desperate longing to go back to before, to erase all this from my memory.

“I ... don’t think this is the kind of message they need,” I whisper softly.

A heavy weight presses down on me.

And the ... sympathy, the mercy I feel for the people who hurt me surprises me. Innocent people who ...

I shake my head.

No, not innocent. But people all the same.

People whose lives mattered. People who should have been forgiven, shown mercy, despite all they did to me, despite what they’d continue to do if given the chance.

Lucifer lifts a brow. “Then whatdothey need?”

I fumble over my words, instantly exhausted. Suddenly, I’m tired, so, so tired. “They need ... less arrogance,” I whisper. “Less entitlement. Less animosity to those who are different.”

“And?” he prompts.

“More humility. More generosity. More compassion and understanding.”

My eyes dart to his, and I think we both understand it isn’t only the Righteous I’m talking about anymore.