Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)
Goldsin: Chapter 15

I let the straightened strand of hair fall from my fingers as I move on to the next one. Drops of water from the steam roll down the full-length mirror as I peek at my reflection. My cheeks are red from the hot shower I just took, my freckles dancing wild on my shoulders and my chest. They’re always more visible whenever I blush or warm up.

I returned from Julian’s apartment this morning to replace Valentine secretly swinging his hips to some eighties R&B song. He said he was just itching from the new pants he was wearing . . . I don’t know why he can’t just admit to having a bad sense of rhythm.

Humming along to the notes of the same song now, I try to clear my mind of the news Valentine shared. News that gets me so eager my feet jiggle with pent-up energy.

He informed me Marcus Whitman will be in town for the week, meeting with the Inferno Consortium to discuss some delicate details regarding DeMarco’s death.

That old scumbag is proving very useful lately, helping me from the grave.

First Victoria, and now Marcus. If he hadn’t taken part in my mother’s suicide, I might even be grateful.

If she did kill herself . . .

The flat iron glides through my hair, and I begin plotting ways I can take Marcus down. The reminder of how I’ll feel once I kill him—that sense of satisfaction—surges through my body.

I bet the rich get off on money just as much as I get off on vengeance.

I’m so lost in thought, looking at the shelves and my reflection, that I don’t notice Julian’s presence until I feel his breath on my neck.

“That’s two, golden one.”

His growling words send a shiver down my spine, and a sharp bolt of panic makes me drop the flat iron in surprise. The sound of it clattering loudly against the tile floor is all the response he gets.

My body stiffens, and I stare at him through the reflection in the mirror, mind blank as I level my racing heart.

He takes a step closer, tilting his head as he says, “Two times.” His voice is low and smooth, like velvet on my skin. “You’ve disobeyed me twice now. You should be more careful.”

I can’t help but glare at him through the mirror. Is he kidding me?

“Disobeyed you?” I scoff in complete disbelief, tightening the towel around my body. “Spare me the melodrama, Julian. Just tell me what you want.”

His vacant blue eyes bore into mine. “Answers, Aurelia.”

He steps to my side, his body now on full display for me to look at. He’s wearing the same training shoes as Adrian. They’ve always been kind of freaks with their indoor gym, and . . .

Breath whooshes out of me as I trail my eyes up his bare, glistening chest.

He isn’t wearing a shirt, and the sight of his tattoos leaves me hypnotized. Up close I can see that everything etched into his skin looks decayed: two skeletal snakes, a butterfly flying on his left collarbone, petals on the right side of his torso. The snakes even swirl down to the tattoos on his arms.

The only normal-looking one is the Latin sentence “UBI TU, IBI EGO” etched vertically between the petals on the right side of his torso.

I remember Valentine watching a documentary on TV about the Romans, where they mentioned these marriage vows, while Julian and I hung around the living room. We were around nine years old then.

“UBI TU GAIA, IBI EGO GAIUS.” As you are Gaia, I am Gaius.

But another interpretation is, “Where you are, there I am.”

Why does he have the Roman marriage vows, which a husband pronounces on his wedding day, etched into his skin?

At my lack of response he adds, “I’m tired of your games. I want the truth.”

Swallowing hard, I rack my brain for some semblance of a plan to put an end to all this. I know what he wants. But I can’t give it to him.

“The truth?” is all I say to buy me some time.

A cold chuckle leaves his lips as he kneels to grab the flat iron from the floor.

Confusion grows within me at every cryptic move Julian makes. He surveys the flat iron in his hand as my eyes remain locked on his through the mirror, which is slowly drying from the steam.

“What a shame,” he murmurs next. His tone of voice sets my teeth on edge. But it isn’t until he snaps the flat iron in half that my breath hitches.

“What the fuck, Julian! Are you crazy? What is wrong with you?” My gaze moves from the broken half dangling by the wires, still intact, to the manic reflection in his eyes.

He circles around me as he brushes the outer side of the flat iron over my exposed skin. “Why are you straightening your hair, Aurelia?”

He doesn’t answer my question; instead asks me one in return. As if this is his game and he makes the rules.

There’s something chilling in the way he uses my name. I think I prefer it more when he calls me by that denigrating nickname.

My eyes roll of their own accord. “Is that what this is about? Really, Julian?” I huff.

When all he does is just stare at me expectantly, I relent and add, “I like it straight, okay?”

As the words leave my mouth, memories from my childhood resurface at the forefront of my mind. The way those entitled kids I grew up with would always replace a way to make me feel like the odd one out, the orphan girl with no family name or fortune to call her own. And when that became last season’s mockery, they picked on my curly red hair.

I remember those endless jokes. How their voices always dripped with cruel taunts. How all they did was point and laugh.

The humiliation was unbearable.

Valentine bought me a flat iron as a gift two days before my first day of high school. As soon as he did, I learned how to straighten my hair, all too eager to embrace the change.

With time it grew on me, and I came to love the sleek, straightened look. It made me feel powerful, like a soldier wearing armor: it didn’t make me look weak. It made me look ready for war.

“Happy now?” My voice is pinched with irony, irritation seeping into my voice.

A sardonic smile twists his lips. “Very. It’s just a pity you feel the need to hide who you really are.”

“Who I am is none of your damn business,” I snap as I follow his fruitless teasing.

He moves the flat iron from my back to my arms, then across my chest, making a scene of slowing down when it brushes over the swell of my breasts.

When he’s behind me again, his gaze lingering on mine, he counters, “Maybe it should be.” The hand holding the flat iron drops to his side, seemingly forgotten. “Because right now, I’m the only person standing between you and the consequences of your actions.”

Anger flares within me. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

We stare at each other for a beat, the tension in the room palpable, with neither of us willing to back down.

Then the sensation of the flat iron slipping beneath my towel breaks the moment. Bursts it as it edges closer to the sensitive flesh between my thighs.

I’m caught off-guard.

He’s still watching me through the mirror as a soft moan escapes my lips. The flat iron flickers over my clit, the sensation stopping me dead. Not alive. Fucking dead.

“What are you doing?” I pant, unable to control my breathing as I lose it with each tantalizing touch.

He continues to tease me, circling around my clit. “Consider this a punishment.”

I’m delirious. I must be, because I laugh at his words. Then I choke back the sound as the flat iron grazes my clit. I bite my lower lip.

“This doesn’t really feel like a punishment.” Desire builds inside of me, but I try to suppress it.

It’s useless.

I tilt my head back just a little as I run my eyes hungrily over Julian’s body.

His dark hair is combed back. One strand falls over his ghostly eyes. Veins protrude from his forearm, mingling with the snake tattoo, as his hand moves beneath the towel.

And this raw need to run my nails down his toned chest invades my mind. I want to hear him hiss with pleasure. I want his hands on me instead of the metal circling my clit.

My focus shifts the moment heat appears between my legs. But this isn’t caused by my arousal. This is something else. This is⁠—

My eyes dart to the plug still connected to the wall. All the feelings and sensations stemming from him, fogging my reasoning, vanish. Reality settles deep within me. He may have broken it in half, but the thing is still functioning. The inner part of the flat iron is still scorching-hot.

Panic surges through me as I try to take a step away from him. But Julian anticipates my move, snaking his arm around my waist and pulling me back tight against his chest, leaving me feeling trapped, defeated, and wet for him.

“Going somewhere?” His lips graze the shell of my ear. “Master says you must be more obedient.”

I lose sense of time.

I swear I’m choking on air.

“Good little gift.” Julian whispers venom.

My mother’s words jab at my insides. “I thought he loved me. That I was his little gift. That’s what he called me when I pleasured him right.”

“Now, answer me, who is Master? Why were you holding onto that page at Victoria’s cabin? Why did you kill DeMarco?”

How did he get the page?

How much does he already know?

I force myself to remember what’s written on that specific page, but the panic eating at me is too strong.

His grip around my waist tightens. “The run’s over. No more lies.” The heat from the flat iron grows more intense where it lingers between my thighs. “Tell me, golden one.” His voice is soft. A creepy kind of soft. “Tell me everything.”

I’m losing time. How much longer can I evade his questions?

I take a deep breath, the flat iron an impending threat. In no time I’ll feel its seething burn. But I’m not scared. I’ll welcome the pain. I’ll do anything to prevent him from replaceing out the truth.

His eyes move to the rise of my chest. Then he tsks.

And my body grows cold.

His breath is hot against my ear. “Such a paradox.” The hand between my thigh twitches. “A killer who cares about other people’s suffering.”

Something pokes at my back.

His dick is as hard as stone. Fucking psycho.

You are dripping-wet, the voice in my head says. He could bend you down and slide his dick right in, it slurs. You aren’t so different from him.

I nearly lose the strength in my legs.

He must know, because he tightens his arm, preventing me from falling to my knees in front of him. I know the sadistic bastard would love nothing more.

As if reading my thoughts he says, “We’re both fucked in the head. We have the same affliction. We’re hooked on pain.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing myself for the inevitable burn.

But instead all I smell is burning skin. No pain.

I snap my eyes open and gasp at what I see.

Julian is pressing the heated flat iron against his lower abdomen. His expression is blank through it all, gaze locked with mine as if daring me to react to his pain.

I twist to my right, hand reaching for the burning iron. “Julian, stop!”

I’m inches away from reaching it when he pulls it away. A faint hiss, more delight than pain, is all that comes out of him.

“Who is Master? Why were you holding onto that page at Victoria’s cabin? Why did you kill DeMarco?” he asks me again, his tone unwavering, unaffected by the red patch of raw skin on his stomach.

Wh-what just happened?

I stare at him, wide-eyed.

Words evade me.

Did he just . . .? Why would he do that to himself?

One second.

Two.

At my lack of an answer, he lowers the flat iron to sear the flesh of his right pec. The skin sizzles as my stomach flips. And his lips twitch. In sick pleasure.

That’s when it hits me. The realization he is so far gone. So out of his awful mind.

He deserves it, and yet . . . I can’t stand to see him hurt himself. Even if he enjoys it. Because there must be something far worse going on with him if he does.

It’s my weakness. He is my weakness.

“Please stop!” I scream, the force scratching at my throat, eyes welling up.

At the sound of my voice he hesitates, then he pulls the flat iron away. Even with the rawness of my expression he watches me expectantly. Waiting.

I know this is it. Even if I make it out of here without spilling my secret to him, he’ll replace another opportunity to do far worse.

Maybe this is the day I die.

It would feel better to die than to live with the failure of disgracing my mother’s memory.

His hand moves higher, until it’s just a breath away from his neck.

“Okay!” I grab his arm. “I’ll talk.”

“Good fucking girl.” His voice is hoarse.

I clutch his arm around my waist. “Let me just—” I look at the marked patches of skin. “Please.”

Something flashes behind his eyes at the word. The plea.

He takes a step back and gives me space to reach the bathroom cabinet under the sink. Kneeling, I gather everything I might need to disinfect and treat his burns. When I turn back to him I guide him to the countertop, and when he doesn’t sit on top of it I raise an eyebrow.

He flicks his eyes all over my face and then hikes himself up, allowing me to tend to his self-inflicted injuries.

I gently clean and dress each burn, my hands shaking slightly with the pent-up anger I feel at his stupidity—and the fear he might be more hurt than he’s making out.

All I can feel is this buzz in my mind. My mouth moves, answering all his questions, pouring my heart out for him. But I don’t hear myself speak. I’m caged in someplace else, hiding in wait for him to act on my words.

“I . . . There’s a lot you don’t know. It’s about my mom . . .”

I tell him about my mother’s suicide, her diary, and every monster mentioned in it. I tell him how Valentine is the only other person who knows what I’ve been up to. How he’s been helping me with this quest for vengeance. Then I tell him about the mysterious guy at Victoria’s party and the missing pages of the diary.

And about Lucian.

How I’m not sure anymore that what killed my mom was suicide. That maybe his father killed her once he was done with her. That maybe once he found out his pet had gotten pregnant by one of his friends he decided to move on to someone younger. Untainted. Pure.

I don’t tell him how one of those friends I’m killing off could be my father. Or how the thought leaves a sour aftertaste.

My hands are shaking once I finish tending to his skin. The truth lingers between us, heavy and tangible enough to be sliced by our silence.

I just shared the darkest corners of my soul.

There’s no turning back now.

“Are you going to kill Lucian?” is all he says.

Our eyes lock onto one another’s, the intensity setting my heart racing.

There’s no point denying it now.

I nod, swallowing hard.

A wicked grin slowly spreads across his face. “Torture the bastard first. Play with him. That sack of balls hates it.”