Page 18 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Fifteen

Charlotte

I’m barely conscious, barely clinging to life, by the time Mark finally unties me.

The chair has splintered into dozens of pieces beneath me, and I let out a weak moan, trying and failing to use my elbows to crawl toward the door. I’m inside the old Brooklyn Navy Yard again, and already, Mark’s broken me. But this time, it isn’t Mark or even Lucifer who stands over me.

It’s Death.

His skeletal face stares back at me.

“Lucifer?” I rasp, searching for him, hoping he’ll save me.

But he isn’t there. “Forgive me,” Death whispers.

Abruptly, he shoves his hand inside my chest, burying it deep. I gasp and choke on what he’s just shoved inside me, but it’s not light that I see.

It’s darkness . . .

I jerk upright, my heart pounding and a cold sweat drenching me, only to find I’m still in the guest room. Lucifer didn’t carry me to our bed like he usually would, which means ...

He didn’t return home all evening.

My eyes fall to the closed bathroom door, to what I don’t want him to see, because he isn’t safe anymore.

Though was he ever, really?

The thought pains me, the feeling of Death’s cold embrace still gripping me.

I glance toward the window to where the curtains peek open, allowing some of the early morning light to flood in. So different from the darkness that tried to consume me.

Another night. Another nightmare. More hellfire.

It was just a dream.

A dream laced with memory. A memory that hasn’t stopped haunting me.

Along with the feeling of someone’s arms that I ... can’t quite place.

Death’s cold embrace.

I slip from the bed, stripping off the sheets, hoping that the maids take them to the wash quickly so that when Lucifer does come home, he doesn’t discover I’ve sweat through them again. My nightmares worry him.

Or they did. Before we fought, at least.

Now I’m not sure what he feels for me.

Now that I know he was just as trapped by fate as I was.

I shake my head, casting aside those insecurities before they can go any further.

Lucifer loves me. Of course, he does.

In his own twisted way.

I take a fast shower and head upstairs to dress, trying hard not to look toward the cracked glass of the bathroom mirror as I leave. I’ll have to ask Ramesh to call someone to replace it as soon as possible so that Lucifer doesn’t notice.

I glance at the date and time on my phone. The CFDA Awards, the Oscars of fashion, are less than a month away, and with Lucifer and me hosting the awards show, I’m supposed to meet Xzander at his studio in an hour for the first of several fittings.

If the apocalypse holds off long enough for us to see the end of the year, our next big event after that won’t be until February. When we head across the pond to Paris. Thank God.

I smile, a bit of lightness filling me. I’ve never been abroad before, other than a few misguided mission trips on this side of the Atlantic, and the idea thrills me, even if the thought of walking the red carpet honestly seems insurmountable.

A few months ago I could barely manage a regular pair of heels, though these days, they’ve basically become my standard footwear, thanks to Xzander and Imani.

Once I’m dressed, I head down to breakfast like I usually do, Ramesh and the other members of the staff greeting me. I like to take my breakfast on the first floor near the head of the room-length dining table on the off chance Lucifer decides to join me.

The dim light from the nearly three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view—overlooking Midtown and Madison Square Park—and the accompanying fireplace warm me. Even on a chilly autumn morning like this, condensation from the penthouse’s heaters fogging the glass, the sight is breathtaking.

I sit in my usual spot by the window, this morning’s paper and breakfast already waiting for me. Normally, I read the headlines on my phone first, considering that even in PR, everyone knows print is practically dead, but this morning the bold type of the New York Times catches me.

This Generation’s Jonestown: 1666 Dead in Mass Church Suicide.

I snatch the paper up from the table, scouring the article and the horrific picture accompanying it. Dozens upon dozens of bodies slumped over the megachurch’s pews.

Not New Life Nexus, my Father’s congregation, but one of its sister churches.

Mark’s church. Hope Alive. Another Righteous stronghold.

I scan through the article, the contents of my stomach souring with each additional word. No children. My breath shudders out of me. No children, at least.

My hands are shaking so violently that by the time I put the article down, I can’t bring myself to look at any of the other coverage.

Over a thousand dead. Another Jonestown.

This can’t be what he meant when he said he would handle—

No.

No, this is . . .

This is because of me. What they did to me.

It has to be.

My stomach roils, and I run for the nearest bathroom, not caring that I knock over my chair along the way. As soon as I reach the porcelain bowl, I vomit up the few bites of breakfast I’ve eaten along with what remains of last night’s Chinese food.

When I’m finished, I can hardly bring myself to stand, the sight and smell inside the bowl causing me to dry-heave all over again. But this isn’t the kind of mess I would ever leave for the maids to clean, no matter how generously Lucifer pays them, so I flush several times.

Still shaking, I clean myself up, washing my mouth out and stumbling back to the dining room table a few minutes later.

I stare down at the headline again.

It’s not a surprise to see the Righteous on the front page these days. Ever since the bombing at the Met Gala, speculation about them and the role they played has been all over the media, though so far no official arrests have been made.

America doesn’t tolerate religious terrorists.

Except for the homegrown ones, it seems.

I try to swallow the lump inside my throat. I’d hoped, prayed even, for justice against the people who’d conspired to hurt me, but ...

Not like this.

I sit back down at the breakfast table, my stomach still protesting before I glance at a nearby scone. I should eat. Lucifer would order me to, considering my schedule today extends late into the evening, but the thought of anything even close to food right now repulses me.

All those people. All those people ...

Suddenly, the shadows at the edge of the room bend meaningfully as Lucifer steps forth from the ether, or ... whatever it is he calls it, not far from the table.

With a deafening scrape, he pulls out the chair at the table’s head before abruptly dropping down into it, swaying slightly. Like he might be drunk.

Something about the movement reminds me oddly of a pirate, or Azmodeus actually ...

I haven’t seen him this relaxed in weeks.

He blows out a long breath before he looks at me, grinning.

His hair is an artful mess, similar to how it looks just after we’ve fucked, and his tie is undone and hanging from his neck like he’s at the end of a particularly long day.

The scent of smoke, of whisky and brimstone, clings to him along with the sulfur-like smell that lingers on his clothes whenever he returns from Hell.

If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he hasn’t rested in several days.

Time works differently down in Hell, moves slower, or so he tells me.

He exhales, stretching like a languid jungle cat as he casts a fang-laden grin at me.

“Ah, I love the fresh smell of torture in the morning, don’t you?

” He grabs the glass pitcher of orange juice on the table, pouring himself a full glass as if it’s the most natural thing in the world before he takes a slow sip.

His eyes widen, his brow lifting toward one of the nearby waitstaff in appreciation as he says, “Is this freshly squeezed?”

I blink, slow and deliberate.

I don’t know what comes over me, but the next thing I know, the paper is in my hand and I’m standing.

I slam it down in front of him so hard that the table legs shake and some of the orange juice sloshes onto the glass tabletop.

“Charlotte?” Lucifer lifts a chastising brow, like he isn’t certain what’s gotten into me.

“Tell me this wasn’t you,” I demand, pointing down at the headline. “Tell me this wasn’t you. Please .”

He glances down at the headline, his face expressionless, before he quirks his head at me. He waves off the waitstaff, his voice dropping low. “Would you feel better if I told you it was Azmodeus and Wrath, actually?”

My blood runs cold, my knees feeling weak.

“On your orders?”

His lips press together, his eyes going cold. He doesn’t answer me.

But his silence is answer enough.

I turn, prepared to storm out of the room, but Lucifer catches my hand. “Charlotte,” he says, his voice low in warning.

“I can’t, Lucifer. I can’t—”

“If you must know, I’m far more subtle than that.

” He sneers down at the paper as if what he sees is beneath him, his voice shifting to the familiar tone he uses when he dominates me.

Like I’m the one being unreasonable. “Though, naturally, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the sudden influx of souls it’s given me. ”

Which isn’t a no.

He’s not denying it then.

I collapse into his lap, suddenly unable to support my own weight.

“Have you eaten?” he asks after he’s allowed me to curl into the fetal position, my head resting defeatedly between his neck and shoulder.

“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’m his , 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.