Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
He doesn’t give me a choice, backing me inside with hands already tightening on my flesh, with his tongue teasing mine. It’s exhilarating. And while I’ve been so cautious about letting anyone in, I let him not only step inside but also do so with his hand tightening on my neck.
I should be scared. I should stay outside and let him grab my things, but I don’t feel in danger. In fact, I know that if one of the men who haunt my nightmares is somewhere in my apartment, he'll protect me. Maybe for his benefit rather than my own, but still.
It reminds me of that moment when we hugged for the first time, when I didn’t yet know how capable he is. I felt so safe with him then.
And I feel safe with him now.
We’re all the way inside when I open my eyes and look up at him.
“It feels natural to be here with you. I’m not scared when you’re around.” Even though I probably should be. I’m like a kitten cuddling up to a wolf. As long as I’m entertaining enough, he will take care of me.
He shuts the door with his foot and pushes me against it, smelling my hair, dragging his hands down my body. The jolt of lust for him, so new to me yet already becoming second nature, trails to my balls, making them throb in response to his fresh scent.
“No, I’ll protect you. Always.”
I don’t even want to pull away to do the responsible thing and start packing. “How did it even work for you with your other boyfriends? Did they just get the censored version of you?”
Saint grins and grabs my thighs, pulling me up in a way that forces me to close my ankles behind him and embrace his neck. God, he’s strong, and fit, and so handsome. Can the letter really be this much of a turn-on that he’s desiring little old me?
“That’s not a version of me. That is me.”
The way he squeezes my ass is distracting, because it reminds me of the way he fucked me this morning, but I press on. “A sweet and caring guy who makes a picnic in the corridor? That’s still you?”
Saint shrugs, carrying me down the hallway and into my living room. I used to be proud of the way I decorated it, but now that he’s here, I wish I’d gone for something classier than a bright green wall behind the TV. And definitely tidied up more. Can’t change any of that now though.
“I don’t work every day, so I spend most of my time as the man you met. Reading, cooking, going on walks—”
That’s… weirdly reassuring. “Not a writer though?”
“I dabble.”
I shake my head. “Can I… I mean, I want to show you something I never showed anyone.”
The haze or arousal lifts from his eyes, and he puts me down, watching my face as if he wants to remember every detail of my expression. “Of course. What is it?”
I take a deep breath and gently herd him to the sofa. “It’s going to be useful in our hunt.”
I go to the bedroom and retrieve my scrapbook from a box in the wardrobe. I hand it to him with trepidation, but I can’t bear looking at him as he opens it, so I busy myself by going over to the wall.
I bought the large painting of a deer in a forest at a thrift store, and it’s not very good, but it’s what hides behind it that matters. I carefully turn it so that it hangs front to back, and step away so he can see my other project.
Saint’s features are somber as he leans back on the sofa and takes in the product of years of research. I shudder, suddenly worried he might judge me, but if he can’t understand my helpless rage, then who will?
“You have a murder board,” Saint says, putting away the scrapbook and coming closer so he can see the collage of pictures and text hidden behind the deer painting from up close.
I stall, staring at the little arrows and sticky notes around the four mugshots. “What? It’s not a… ‘murder board’,” I mutter, but he’s kinda right. “It’s just… a collection of facts and photos organized into visual form for ease.”
Saint chuckles, eyeing me with a happy grin. “You tell yourself that. But those pins, those red lines around low-quality photos probably printed out from social media? I’ve seen this many times. You want those people dead. I would have been able to tell without even reading the letter,” he says and taps Ted’s face in one of the pictures.
I take a deep breath and put my hands on my hips. “I know it’s fucked up—”
Saint shushes me, pressing his index finger to my lips and watching me with such glee, I’m instantly heating up under my clothes. “No, it’s human. The society we live in tells us we shouldn’t want retribution, but that’s not natural, is it?”