Page 38 of Sin of Love
I sing softly, “Keeps on slipping, slipping, into the future…”
“Miss? Okay?”
Because I know I can, I pat Paulo on his fleshy, scarred cheek. “Aw, big guy, you don’t have to act concerned. I’m going to die here. Everyone knows it.”
The poor man looks horrified. I chuckle and sweep past him into my room, leaving the door open. Paulo lumbers across the room to the little kitchenette and pulls a key ring from his belt. I’m not allowed to prepare my own tea, the ingredients locked away.
They think I might try to kill myself by overdosing.
Fair enough.
While the electric kettle heats water, I kick off my shoes and throw myself onto a settee near the open balcony doors.
A nameless maid has come and gone, preparing the room for the evening. I’m not allowed candles, but the lights are dimmed low as per my standing preference. Jasmine scents the air. Palm fans whir lazily overhead. I lift my face, hoping to catch a breeze, but there isn’t one.
My fingers twitch in my lap. Sweat beads on my face and chest, while mocking chills race down my limbs. My stomach lurches. Outwardly, I show no weakness, no sign of my growing discomfort. The symptoms are nothing new, and these are fairly mild.
Without my tea, they get a lot worse.
Every few days, Julep likes to lock me in my room and let me experience the full scope of my body’s enslavement. He loves visiting when I’m at my lowest—immobile, usually lying in a pool of vomit on the bathroom floor—and taunting me with the reminder that even if I manage to get off the property, I’ll be useless within a few hours.
Hours… minutes…
“Paulo?”
“Coming, miss.”
Is that sympathy in his voice?
No. A trick. There’s no sympathy here. No sanity, either.
After all, if the only constant in my world is a madman, it’s only a matter of time before—
There’s only so much a mind can take—
Is this real?
Time—
“Keeps on slipping, slipping…”
Paulo hands me my tea.
I smile. “Thank you.”
