CHAPTER 31: CHAPTER 31: SINNERS

Aiden took the keys, gripping them hard, the metal edges biting into his palm. He barely felt the sting; his focus was locked on the old man, Gerald, who was barking orders once again, his rasping voice dripping with scorn as he scolded Lisa like a dog.

"...this is just the start, old man," Aiden thought, his teeth grinding together. "You’ll see soon enough. You’ll see. No everyone will see."

The keys felt heavier than they should have—cold, solid, grounding him. In a way, they were more than keys. They were a claim, a marker of change. A step into something bigger.

His gaze flicked across the hall. The duchess’s daughter was watching him, her lips curling with sarcasm, her eyes carrying the kind of sharp amusement that cut deeper than words.

She looked feisty, almost entertained, as though she had caught a whiff of blood in the water. Aiden knew her type. She’d stay silent now, but her silence was a blade waiting to be drawn. If she decided to open her mouth at the wrong time, if she started blabbering, he’d deal with her. One way or another.

But she wasn’t his problem—not tonight. The real problem awaited closer to midnight. His eyes darted to the grand clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. The pendulum swung in steady rhythm, mocking him.

"...still have time," he whispered under his breath.

He retreated to his assigned quarters, deeper within the mansion, where the Butlers lived—an entire underbelly hidden from the noble shine above. His boots tapped against the stone floor as he descended into the quieter halls. The air grew cooler, the scent of polished wood giving way to damp stone and faint traces of smoke from the servant kitchens.

When he reached his room, he exhaled and let the tension bleed from his shoulders. The sound of the keys clicking against the lock was strangely satisfying. He twisted, pushed, and slowly opened the door.

The room was wide—twenty-five by twenty-five feet, spacious beyond what most servants could ever dream of. A large side bed rested in the corner, sheets folded neatly, and a modest sofa and table filled the opposite side. Aiden’s chest tightened, not from fear but from something else—an unfamiliar relief.

"My own bed... my own room," he whispered, his words tumbling into the silence like a prophecy spoken to no one.

He collapsed onto the mattress, sinking into the cushion. It swallowed his body like a sea of softness. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax. But then—

The scent hit him.

Iron.

Sharp, metallic, unmistakable. His nose twitched, and his body stiffened. He knew that smell. Everyone knew.

He shot up, his head turning toward the window. His pupils narrowed as he caught sight of two servants outside, hauling something heavy between them. The moonlight hit the object wrapped in canvas, and Aiden’s stomach coiled.

"...is that...?" His heart raced. "No. He wouldn’t. Did he really...?"

He swallowed hard, but the lump refused to go down. His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm.

He rushed outside, boots echoing on the stone floors. The itch in his mind scratched deeper, demanding. He had to know. He had to see.

The servants trudged forward with the weight of the bag. It sagged, the shape too familiar to mistake. A head. Shoulders. Limbs pressed against the fabric. His forehead prickled with sweat as bile crawled up his throat.

"Stop!" His voice rang out, sharper than he intended.

And they did.

They froze mid-step, as if his word was law, as if invisible chains bound their legs. His command lingered in the air, unnatural, heavy.

Aiden’s breath quickened. He stepped closer. The smell grew stronger, invading, choking. His hand trembled as he reached forward.

He pulled open the bag.

And the world tilted.

Blood. So much blood. The stench smothered him, copper and rot clinging to the back of his throat.

Gail.

His head was severed cleanly from his body, the gash raw, obscene. His eyes were wide, frozen in terror, the final horror etched into his gaze like a painting of despair. His mouth hung open, as though his final scream had been ripped out of him before the blade fell.

Aiden staggered back. His stomach twisted violently. He turned, gagged, and vomited against the stone. His knees nearly buckled.

"Go." His voice cracked as he forced the word out, his hand trembling.

The servants obeyed silently, dragging the bag forward. Their eyes were empty, their expressions vacant. They didn’t question. They didn’t care.

Aiden fell to his knees, vomiting again, the acid burning his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing bile across his lips.

"What the fuck..." he gasped. "He just... killed him. Just like that. Off with his head. And it’s done?"

The weight of it pressed down on him. The sheer finality.

"This... this is the way of this world," he muttered, trying to steady his breathing. His voice shook. "Even Augustus said it himself... he is justice. He is the sun. If he wishes someone dies, they die. If he wishes someone lives, they live."

The words felt hollow even as he spoke them. He had read about death. He had seen it in countless films, written in novels, glamorized or dramatized. But this... this was real. Blood and rot and fear carved into a human face.

And Gail had died because of him. Because Aiden existed. Because he had tangled himself into a story he could no longer escape.

His hand rose instinctively to his neck, fingertips brushing against the skin. The warning letter flashed through his memory. The words. The threat. The phantom feeling of a blade at his throat.

His pulse hammered.

Slap!

His hands smacked against his cheeks, hard, the sting snapping him back. He did it again, both sides, until his skin burned.

"This isn’t you," he hissed to himself. "Think. Stay logical. Don’t let fear drag you under. You’ll die fast if you keep this up."

He forced the bile down, swallowing hard. The taste of acid clung to his tongue, but he ignored it. He had to. He’d need to swallow much more in the days to come.

"I will survive," he whispered. His voice steadied, growing firmer. "No matter what it takes. I’ll survive."

He pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket. Amber’s address. His next move. His next tether. His path to the peak.

"...I’ll be at my peak," he told himself. "And I’ll survive this night."

.

.

.

Night fell, the sky outside stretching deep and endless, a curtain of velvet pricked with cold stars.

Amber sat alone in her modest home, the flicker of candlelight painting her walls in golden shades. She finished her meal in silence, pressing her hands together.

"Amen," she whispered, her lips brushing the prayer like a confession. She rose, washed her plate slowly at the basin, the water cool against her fingers.

Her gaze flicked again to the door. Always the door. Every night for days she had done the same—looked, waited, hoped. Her heart twisted in expectation. But the door stayed closed, empty.

She touched the silver sigil hanging at her neck, the emblem of her faith. Her thumb pressed into its grooves as if clinging to it might cleanse her.

"Oh Lord," she prayed softly. "Deliver me from these sinful thoughts. Save my soul from desires that are not of me, but of the mortal temptation that lingers still..."

Her voice faltered.

The abbess uniform felt heavy on her body. One by one, she undid it. She removed the head covering, letting her blonde hair spill free, golden waves glimmering under the candlelight. She unbuttoned the gown at her back, the fabric loosening, slipping, baring pale skin and the outline of her undergarments.

Plop.

The uniform fell to the floor. Along with it, the weight of guilt seemed to slide from her shoulders.

In the mirror, she saw herself not as the abbess, not as the servant of God—but as Amber. Young. Desired. Flesh and blood. Men had wanted her, had begged for her hand in marriage. She had denied them all, cloaking herself in faith.

But tonight, staring at her own reflection, she could not deny the truth.

Her eyes flicked once more to the door. Still nothing.

The guilt of her uniform was gone. Only her bare skin, only her truest self remained.

And with it, memory.

The mansion. The way he touched her. The way his hands claimed her body with a hunger that burned. How he held her, not with reverence but with possession. How alive she had felt.

The church. Their first encounter. Sacred walls echoing with unholy desire. His desperation, his fire, the way his body demanded hers as though he would die if denied. Every second carved into her soul.

Amber lay in the dim glow of her modest cottage, the memory of Aiden’s touch searing through her like a wildfire that refused to die. Oh, how exquisite it felt, that intense, all-consuming feeling that still pulsed in her veins, as vivid as the moment it happened.

She could still recall every detail with agonizing clarity—how he had pounded into her with such raw, primal hunger, a desperate thirst that seemed to claw at his very soul, as if he would perish if he didn’t claim her, devour her, savor every inch of her voluptuous body.

Her breath caught as her body remembered. Her undergarments dampened, clinging.

She resisted, biting her lip. She tried to pray again, to smother the fire. But it was no use. The flame roared back, stronger than ever.

Her hand reached for the drawer. From it, she took the object she had grown used to—long, rubber, shaped to mimic what she longed for. A poor substitute, but all she had.

Her hand trembled as she whispered, "Forgive me, Lord, for I will sin again..."

Knock. Knock.

Her breath stopped. The tool slipped from her grasp, clattering against the floor.

Her heart thundered in her chest, louder than the knocks.

"...Who’s there?" she asked, her voice soft, almost innocent.

"...It’s me. Aiden."

The voice. The one she had dreamed of, prayed for, sinned for.

Her knees weakened. Her green eyes widened, shimmering with a hunger barely restrained.

She didn’t hesitate.

"Come in," she whispered.