Before we started down the streets, Priscilla darted back inside the gallery for a t-shit for me to wear. She'd tossed it at me; merchandise from her art show. If wearing an oversized shirt meant hiding my injuries from curious eyes and making her more comfortable, I'd do it.

But I tugged at it the entire time we walked.

"I'm not far from here," she said, the sound of her shoes echoing on the sidewalk as she dug into her bag. She pulled her phone out and glanced at the screen. A small sigh escaped her. She huffed, rolled her eyes, then looked ahead. As she pushed her phone back into the back pocket of her bag, she pointed at the building at the corner. "Right there, third floor."

I blinked as I looked at the building. Standard apartments. No one outside. That worked in my favor; no eyes, no witnesses. Not that I planned on doing anything to her, but if something happened to me, there wouldn't be the nosey neighbor who'd call the police. Unless they lived right next door to her and listened through the walls.

Priscilla touched my shoulder before letting her hand slide down my arm. "Are you feeling okay?" she asked.

Considering my condition, I felt fine. The pain subsided. Rather than exploding all over my body, it was just an ache under my skin. Annoying, yet tolerable.

I shot her a weak smile. "I'm okay."

"Good," she said.

And we were quiet after that, just walking beside each other, looking ahead. I also looked at my sides, just in case. The last thing we needed was a sneak attack from the other Sins. I hoped I'd feel them coming if that happened. If I couldn't, well... I tried.

Once we reached the building, Priscilla quickly let us inside. I followed her up the flights of stairs, noting the dimness of the hallways. There were at least four light bulbs that needed to be changed. There was also an odor. I clenched my jaw as she stopped at an apartment door, pushing her keys into the lock above the doorknob.

"Sorry." She looked back at me with an awkward smile. "Struggling artist, you know," she motioned at the hallway. "I live where I can afford."

Was the disgust obvious on my face? I didn't want to come off as rude. And I didn't want her to think it was about her, either.

"No, don't apologize," I said. "I get it. I take what I can get, too."

And that wasn't a lie. For at least the last twenty years, hotels had become my home. It was easier to bounce around establishments that didn't care to notice much about me than sign a contract in a building where people needed to know me. I was a shadow in this realm and preferred to stay that way.

"Well, I'm glad I'm not alone," she chuckled, stepping inside. I followed after her.

Contrary to the building's upkeep and funky hallway, the inside of her apartment was lovely. Clean. Flowers heavily decorated the front table. The floors were covered with finished art; portraits placed in their frames, photos enlarged into rolled-up posters. The walls, too. On the far left wall was an unfinished painting, sitting on an easel, a small table with supplies beside it.

Rather than follow Priscilla past the flowers, the couch, and into her kitchen—where I was sure she'd probably prepare more tea—I went to the incomplete artwork. The corners were blue and green, much like the painting at the gallery. But the streaks were different. It reminded me of a deep sea's waves or the view a soul would have when they passed into the other realm.

I knew it because blue and green swirling waves were what I was shown when I joined the Seven—forfeiting my afterlife for a 'better' life.

"Sorry for the mess!" Priscilla called out from the kitchen. She rummaged through her cabinets, and I heard mugs clinking against each other. "I wasn't expecting anyone, other than Megan, you know." The cups hit the counter. The cabinet door closed. The fridge promptly opened. "Do you drink?" she asked suddenly.

I pulled my gaze away from the unfinished painting and settled on her. Her head was pushed into the refrigerator. Her curls hung to one side. As she reached it and grabbed a bottle, slowly pulling it out and observing the contents, I couldn't help but smile. Maybe I was wrong about the tea. This Priscilla drinks, and honestly, I could use a fucking glass or two. If she'd offer, I'd take it.

"I do," I said, leaning to gently crack my back. I regretted it immediately and hissed.

She looked over at me, brows raised. "Careful," she said, reaching for the mugs—one red and one white. She held them at her sides as she came to me. A small smile lifted her lips once she stood in front of me. "Two things."

"Okay." Two things about what? There were two coffee mugs in her hand; an odd choice of glassware for alcohol, but at this point, beggars couldn't be choosers, right?

"I'm not one to just invite random men to my house. I'm not that kind of person. I just," she sighed, "I couldn't just not make sure you're okay. I just wanted to make sure you didn't assume."

My brows shot up. I hadn't even thought of it, honestly. Maybe because every time I looked at her, I thought of her from a hundred years ago, and she also, then, said the same thing. I'm not that kind of person.

"And two—" Holding up the bottle she'd pulled from the fridge, she flipped it until I saw the Vodka label on the front. I wasn't one for clear liquor; whiskeys were my go-to. If not whiskey, rum. I felt like clear liquor went straight to the veins and muscles. Being a demon made my tolerance much higher than a mortal, but that didn't mean I couldn't feel the effects.

"After what you've gone through," she noted my chest, "I think you need something stronger than tea. Something to take the edge off."

"I'm down for a drink," I smirked. "How could I say no?"

"Easy." Priscilla blinked at me as she handed me the red mug and poured Vodka into it. "With your words."

I snorted. Sassy.

***

I finished the first mug and a second and made my way to pour myself a third. I may not have been a Vodka fan, but it did the trick. I'd almost forgotten about my troubles; who cared if the Sins found me anyway? Being inebriated meant I felt no pain, and if Wrath wanted to dig her claws in me again, I'd be ready.

At least, that's what I thought before I started the third cup. By this point, my chest burned, and I formed a slight headache. The edges of my vision blurred red as I stared at the assortment of art throughout Priscilla's apartment.

"So, all of these are yours?" I asked, pointing at them with the hand still holding my drink.

She sat on a chair in the corner of the room. "Mhm," she hummed. "You came to my gallery, remember? I'm the art-eest." She giggled right after. "So they're all mine."

I'd become fascinated with a portrait near the kitchen. Balanced on the small table was a painting of a man. His dark wavy hair looked like mine. His eyes were dark but lined with white. There was a serpent mark on his waist. Now, I didn't have a tattoo, but being a demon, I suppose I was a serpent, and I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, but I was convinced the painting looked like me.

Maybe it is you. She is Priscilla, after all.

No, I couldn't listen to the voices, not now. I had a drink too many. The last thing I needed was to fall into another trap, just in my head this time.

Priscilla moved away from her seat and walked to me, sipping from her mug as she did. Her cheeks were red, and when she stopped, she pointed at the painting and bit her bottom lip. "This one is one of my favorites," she said. "He kept coming to me in dreams."

I looked at her. "Dreams?"

She nodded, focused on the painting. "Started a few years ago, just, you know," she glanced at me and smirked, sliding her tongue out slightly between her teeth, "those kinds of sexy dreams. I couldn't get him out of my head. It was just a dream, but it felt so real. I had to save him somehow."

She looked back at the pointing. "So I painted him, forever saved in art, so he wouldn't be lost."

Sexy dreams? My gaze slid over the artwork, over the lines of the man she'd drawn. The red background made him pop, but the streaks of blue and green made him... different. I took another sip from my mug. "You said you had to save him because he was lost?" I looked at her, hoping she'd answer.

Priscilla took a drink from her mug, too, and nodded slowly. "He'd just appear in my dreams. We'd be in weird places, like a river, a forest," she pointed at her apartment window, "you know shit that isn't in the city," she laughed. "But, he'd find me and whisper in my ear how lost he was without me, then, you know," she giggled, biting her lip, "let me stop."

She was embarrassed. Oversharing because of the Vodka. I got it. No harm, no foul. But as she turned, looking at another one of her paintings, I couldn't help but keep my eyes on the painting that reminded me... of myself.

Didn't you have Priscilla in those places? When was the first time? Behind the trees? No, that was before she died.

"You know, so weird," Priscilla turned back around and put her hand on my arm, "you kind of look like the guy in my paintings."

I didn't know whether to look at her or the art. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." She staggered as she turned and bumped into the wall. When she leaned against it, she smiled, then shrugged. "You've got the same muscle build, the same hair—"

I snorted and averted my gaze. What was I supposed to say? "I think I'm pretty generic."

Snorting, Priscilla covered her mouth. "Generic, please; you're far from it." Biting her lip again, she pushed off the wall and came toward me. Her hands grabbed the baggy shirt she'd given me, twisting the extra fabric around her finger. With her so close, I caught the scent of her perfume again. When she looked up, I gazed into her shimmering eyes. Fuck, what was I supposed to say to this?

"Priscilla," I whispered.

"And that," she pressed her lips together as she drew in a deep breath, "you say my name like he does, too."

How else was I supposed to say it? She was pressed against me. Even with these bandages and baggy shirt, I felt her breasts, her nervous yet excited heartbeat. The sense of familiarity was there, curiosity all over her face. Inhaling slowly through my nose, I let her scent fill me as I focused on her eyes.

She was dreaming about me, wasn't she? I'd never experienced a reincarnated soul, so how would this work? Were the memories of the dreams from her previous life? Glimpses of me, the lost demon who came to her in various places. Breaking out of the gaze, I glanced around the room at the different paintings, and swore I saw myself in some of them.

She sees you too, Octavio. She knows you, even if she doesn't know why.

"Maybe I have a generic voice," I said.

"You know how I'd know for sure?" she said softly, pressing herself up on her toes. "I remember what the dream kisses feel like."

My brows shot up high. I pushed my hand into my hair, sliding back the waves. She giggled as if she liked it. Did I do that in her dreams, too? "I don't..." I closed my eyes. I couldn't let myself get too comfortable. Something could happen before I know it, and then what? I'd walked into this without considering the consequences.

Looks like you like to relive your failures, don't you, Octavio?

"Okay, so," Priscilla pressed a finger to my lip, "I know this is the drink. I know this is the Vodka. But I'm... I'm curious." She cupped my face. "Something's telling me I need to know."

You were supposed to kill her.'

"We shouldn't, Priscilla."

Save her, Octavio.

"I think we should sit down and have some water," I said, pulling her hands away from my face.

"After you kiss me," she said. "Just a little one."

The way she bit her lips, the look in her eyes, I wanted to say no. I needed to deny her, for both of our sakes. I sighed and growled right after. Restraint and the need to survive blended but were waning. I'd lose this battle, wouldn't I?

"Priscilla," I moved her gently so she wasn't directly on me, "I know you said you don't do this; I get it. But shouldn't a part of you tell you to run from me?" I bit my lip. "I've got some obvious demons—" I am a demon. "—and secrets, and people coming for me." I put her hands at her side and stepped away from the painting, "I shouldn't have come here. Thank you for the drinks."

Before I could turn for the door, Priscilla quickly followed. Her face was pressed against my back. I hissed because the wounds there were still fresh. But she eased away and grabbed my arm instead, turning me with her gentle hands. I did, I complied because I couldn't say no...

"I've got secrets, too," she whispered, looking into my eyes once I faced her. "Things regular people wouldn't understand."

What kind of secrets?

I snorted and rubbed my brow. "You're breeching to the choir," I whispered.

"Okay." She licked her bottom lip. "Even if I'm preaching, I'm not asking to know you're secrets, and I can't tell you mine."

I scanned her face. Her flushed cheeks. Her lips parted as she let the silence settle. Her heart thumped as she struggled with her thoughts, her curiosity, and the basic necessity of fight–or–flight. I didn't need to penetrate her brick wall of protected thoughts to know that. I heard it in each breath she took.

"And you don't have to tell them to me," I whispered. Even though, if she would, I'd listen. That would be the perfect conversation over tea, wouldn't it?

"All I'm asking is for a kiss." She came close to me again. "Just one, then I'll bring out the blankets so you can sleep on my couch."

With a glance at her couch, I debated the offer. I shouldn't stay, and I knew that. But if I stayed, I could be that guardian angel she wanted; just in case my errors already knew I was here and followed me. The other part of me... the side that dealt with neglect and angst for so many years... selfishly wanted to stay, to take her lips in a kiss, and hoped I'd become more than the paintings on her wall.

You're envious of an idea. That's something new for you.

"You want a kiss?" I looked back at her and let my hand travel up her neck. She didn't pull away. She let me, remaining still and firm, as my thumb traveled up to her chin, as my fingers gently brushed the warmth behind her ears. When my fingers wrapped around and gently squeezed, she gasped, her eyes brightening with more than curiosity. I couldn't explain the look with words.

"If this kiss isn't the same as your dreams," I whispered, searching her face, "what then?" I moved closer, my nose against hers. "Will this be a disappointment? The end of your curious flare?" Still holding her neck, I pulled her close, loosened my grip, and let my fingers travel into her curls. She gasped again. "Will I be able to sit on the couch and chill?" I asked, breathy, letting my words hit her lips.

Her hands gripped my shirt again as she focused on my eyes. "Why are you focusing on the negative?" she whispered.

"Because," I may be lost, I may need saving, but, "I am not a dream."

That was the most honest thing I'd ever said to Priscilla; in this life and the last. I wasn't a dream; I wasn't a sign of hope. I was fueled by darkness and couldn't die because light was banned from my life. Dreams would not selfishly take from another. Dreams would not guide one into nightmares. If I were a dream, I'd make her smile and laugh; allow her to live to old age with a normal man who would've given her the family she deserved.

She's waiting, Octavio.

Priscilla pressed herself up on her toes and closed the gap between us, shortening the distance between our lips. "Can I pretend you are?"