Devious - Lisa Jackson [77]
“Oh, ye of little faith—”
“That’s me. Okay, let’s not fight. You’re forgiven,” she said, rolling off the bed. That was the great part about her; she never stayed mad for long. Oh, she could get white hot and fast, but it always dissipated quickly.
Her feet hit the floor. “I guess this is where I play the part of the doting wife.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You take care of your son and I’ll heat up your dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You got that right. I don’t.” She stopped at the doorway, barefoot, one hand on the door, her gaze skewering his. “But I know you were out bustin’ crime, tryin’ to make the city safe, right? So I’m offering you an olive branch here, because I know I came off like a world-class bitch. You know I do understand that your work is important, that you’re trying like crazy to find out who killed that poor nun.”
Folding her arms under her breasts, she leaned against the doorway with her shoulder and added, “Look, I know being a cop is in your blood, okay? But sometimes I can’t help myself. What you do scares me to death. There are nights when it’s really late and you’re not home, and I go quietly out of my mind. My imagination goes into overdrive. I get scared that something’s happened to you and I’ll never see you again and . . . and Ben won’t know his father and . . .” She met his gaze, her eyes filled with a quiet, dark fear. “I can’t help it, Reuben,” she admitted. “That thought scares the hell out of me.”
CHAPTER 25
The room was dark, just a hint of moonlight shafting through the tiniest of windows. The heat of the day had settled beneath the rafters, humid heat trapped in the small space.
As a night bird cried, its call plaintive over the quietness of the city, Edwina let her nightdress fall into a puddle at her feet, then kicked off her underwear.
She turned and stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror propped against the wall of the attic. She was naked, her skin white and bare, her body half in shadow, half catching the weak light of the moon. The crack in the mirror split the light and dark halves of her image imperfectly, reminding her that she was but a servant of God, that she was ultimately flawed—a sinner.
Her pale braid fell over one shoulder, the end of the plait brushing the tip of her small breast. Her body was still muscular and athletic, her waist small, her shoulders wide, her hips slim. Her nipples were tiny and dark, one visible, the other hidden in shadow. Her nest of blond hair at the juncture of her legs, too, was cleaved in the mirror’s distorted image.
Swallowing back any doubts, she reached forward, her fingers exploring the back side of the mirror, finding the nail protruding from the thick wooden frame surrounding the glass and the smooth leather crop that hung hidden there.
Her fingers curled over the worn handle, pulling free the whip with its nine leather straps.
She fell to her knees in front of the glass. She said a prayer under her breath, then lifted the wicked little whip high over her head, its nine tails with their hard little knots dangling high.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, thinking of all her sins. So many. So deep. A lifetime of wickedness, until she had come here, until she had learned how to receive ultimate absolution.
“You must overcome pain and fear,” she’d been told. “You must transcend the mortal and atone. . . .”
As she had so many night before, she stared at herself in the mirror’s reflection, then cocked her wrist.
“Welcome the pain, the remission of your sins.”
She did. Bravely, she flicked her wrist.
Snap!
The whip flicked.
SSSST! It hissed through the air.
Slap!
Like hornets stinging, the strips of leather bit.
Sharp.
Quick.
She sucked in her breath.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t cry out.
Didn’t dare close her eyes.
Because she knew, deep in her soul, she was being observed, her actions noted.
Who was watching?
She didn’t know.
One pair of eyes? Two? A