Reparation of Sin: A Sovereign Sons Novel by Zavarelli, A. (a book to read .txt) 📕

but this? Accusing me of attempting to murder my own husband no matter how much I hate him? It’s insane. Unbelievable.

But he’s alive.

And my mind begins its incessant circling again.

I pull at my hair to distract myself. If I could just see him. Talk to him. Explain that I was in the chapel, and when the second gong rang out, I had been hiding in one of the bathrooms. Explain that I couldn’t get out.

Coincidental. Convenient. I can hear him now.

He hates me. He already believes the worst when it comes to me, and this will not alter his feelings. Not in a way that would benefit me.

I tried to explain it to the man who is holding me. I tried to tell him what happened, but he wouldn’t have it either. He threatened to gag me if I wouldn’t keep quiet on the drive back to this horrible place, and when he’s come in to feed me and empty the bucket, he has refused to speak to me.

But Santiago is alive. He’ll come for me. I have to believe that.

I stop, though, because another thought interrupts that never-ending cycle.

What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t come? What if he leaves me here to rot until I’m expected to appear before The Tribunal again? What if he’s alive but not himself? Hurt. And what if he’s alive but doesn’t want me back?

At that, I let out a strange, snort-laugh. It’s ugly.

Yes. He’ll want me back. He’ll want to be the one to punish me.

I close my eyes, confused by all this, my own thoughts, my feelings, this isolation, this darkness. I tug the blanket closer, rubbing warmth into my freezing feet. It’s so cold here. My captor must realize it too because he gave me a second blanket. Same as the first one. Rough and terrible but at least it’s something.

Does he think I’m guilty of what they’re accusing me of?

I drift off, snatching sleep when it comes before the cold, and my dreams wake me. Tonight, though, when I startle awake, it’s not either of those things that rouse me. It’s the key in the lock.

I blink my eyes open, my brain in a fog from the lack of sleep, lack of sunlight, and no exercise. Lack of nutrition. A half bowl of cold soup, a wedge of stale bread, and an apple a day are not enough to sustain me.

Whoever it is is carrying a lantern and there it is. That spark of hope inside me. I sit up, but the moment I recognize the cloak, the hood, the spark is extinguished.

He walks in without a word to me. That’s not unusual, though.

I fumble for my blindfold. I forgot to pull it down, but I do now. I wonder if I should ask for a new strip of cloth. This one is disgusting.

“Stand up,” he says.

“What?”

“Up. On your feet.”

This is different. I release the blanket, shuddering as I stand. I’m not sure I’ll ever get warm again.

“Arms.”

“Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“Arms.”

I extend my arms out to him and feel the familiar rope wrap around the healing, scabbed skin. I feel the warmth of tears slide down my face again.

“Are you taking me back? To The Tribunal?”

He doesn’t reply. Weaving the rope around and between my wrists, he pulls me to the center of the room, where I know the ring he has hooked me to on the ceiling is. He turns me to face away from him, my back to the door.

“No, please. It’s too high. It hurts…”

But my arms are stretched above me, and I’m bound in place before I even finish, and then he’s leaving. Gone. I hear him go. Hear the door close. Hear the lock turn. And then the crunching of dead leaves and branches as he passes by my small window.

What does he mean to do? He can’t leave me hanging like this all night, surely. All day.

I rub the side of my face against my arm and manage to push the blindfold up enough to open my eyes. I turn to look behind me, all around me. Can I at least reach the bucket? Turn it upside down and stand on it to alleviate the pain in my shoulders? I try to extend my leg, but it’s too far. I’m stuck with only the tips of my toes on the floor. I shiver as a cool wind blows outside, and the rain starts to fall, the sound pretty, musical almost on the lush floor beyond my cell. It would be pretty if I were anywhere else. Even in my room which felt like a cell at The Manor. What I’d give to be back there now.

* * *

I drift in and out of sleep, jolted awake when my head lolls to my arm then drops. My shoulders ache. My stomach is rumbling. I’m hungry and thirsty. I’m exhausted. So exhausted I can’t think straight.

Rain now pours outside, sliding along the wall beneath the window over the trail of moss and growth on the path it must normally take. I sneeze. I’m freezing. How long has it been? How long has he left me hanging here? And how much longer does he plan to keep me like this?

Something crunches outside. A branch breaks. I hear it even through the rain. Then a moment later comes the familiar sound of the key in the lock.

I turn to look over my shoulder to watch for him, wondering what the point was to stringing me up. The door opens, creaking heavily on its rusted hinges. He’s back, and I’m relieved.

“Thank God,” I mutter. My shoulders ache, and my toes have gone numb.

No lantern this time. Only blackness around him.

I rub my face on my arm but fail to get the blindfold down, so I keep my face averted, my back to the door. To him. I don’t want to anger him. But I listen for him. His steps are always so quiet that