'Don't look, Lillian. Never look into the eyes of a Sin-Eater, you will be as cursed as he is and will forever languish in darkness.'
Lillian Elmes remembers the warning her mother gave her about the town's Sin-Eater only too well.
How could she n...
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'What on Earth do you think you're doing?' I say, my pulse quickening.
Tick-tick-pause-tick.
His eyes flicker in my direction. 'As I told you, I am taking my bath before the water gets cold.'
'Mr. Carver, you cannot!'
'I can and I will. If you don't wish to look, Miss Elmes, you can always turn and face the other way, or perhaps you would prefer to spy on me through the window?'
'I was not spying on you and how dare you suggest such a thing!'
The Sin-Eater smiles, a glint of something dark and mischievous in his eyes. He is having much fun at my expense; I am sure of it. 'I think maybe you were, a little bit.'
'This is really too much! You seek to offend me.' My insides twist with anxiety. Never has a man bothered me as much as this one.
Never has a man intrigued me as much as this one.
He shrugs, standing up from his armchair and kicking his boots to one side. 'On the contrary, I merely seek to have my bath which I intend to do whether you like it or not. Now, watch or don't watch. I care not.'
My mouth drops open as he reaches for the waistband of his breeches and I catch a glimpse of firm thigh, of sculptured flesh, before I whirl around, my face on fire that I am sure will burn forever. I can barely breathe when I hear the sound of the water sloshing as Mr. Carver steps into the tub.
I cannot stop the images from assaulting my mind. They cram every dark corner. Every part of my imagination that I dare not speak of. I see the hard, beautiful lines of his torso. Perspiration glimmering on his throat. The perfection of his hipbone. The dark hair curling under his navel.
As he bathes, he hums to himself, low and gravelly and the sound vibrates up my spine and resonates across my collarbone. I wring my hands and then remember that is what my mother would do, and I have to stop, instead reaching for my throat. I so wish to loosen the button of my collar, but it would be highly inappropriate. Mr. Carver might not understand, nor heed the boundaries of propriety, but I do. I have to.
And yet still the sound of his voice thrums over my skin and the steam curls into the rafters above my head.
My hand claws at my throat now, tugging on the high neck of my dress and I run a finger along the inside edge, desperately trying to find some release from its bind. I stare hopelessly out of the window, wishing I could be free of this place but knowing that I cannot because of the nightmares that await outside, and it is then that I see him.
His reflection in the window is blurry where the steam fogs the glass, but I can see him in the tub, his hair now wet and brushed back from his face. I see nothing more than he has already revealed to me, but there is something about watching him in the tub with the flames crackling in the hearth that leaves me a little breathless. I am at once torn between the beauty I see in this man, and what I know of him.
