Chapter 31
Saint
The storm hasn’t stopped.
It prowls over London like something alive, a restless animal gnawing at the night.
Rain drums against the townhouse windows, soft at first, then harder—steady, insistent percussion that seeps into my bones.
The air still smells like smoke, asphalt, and her perfume—whatever faint trace clings to my coat. A ghost made of citrus and fire.
I should go upstairs. Shower. Sleep. Pretend tonight never happened.
Instead, I pour another drink.
The study is dim, the kind of dark that feels intentional.
Rook’s lamp glows low, turning the dust motes into sparks in the air.
I sit in his chair—his throne—and stretch my legs, the old wood groaning under me.
The map still lies across the desk, edges curling, the pins catching light like tiny stars that mark the places we’ve bled.
I stare at it, but it blurs. The only thing that stays clear are her eyes. The sound she made when she saw Damien. The taste of rain and defiance on her lips.
Footsteps cut through the quiet—heavy, deliberate.
I don’t look up. “You shouldn’t stomp like that, Wraith. It gives you away.”
The door slams, hard enough to rattle the walls. “You kissed her.”
I smile into my glass, the rim cold against my mouth. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve kissed plenty of women.”
He moves closer, the air heating with his anger—feral, unrefined, the kind of rage that belongs to back alleys and battlefield dirt, not this polished room. “Don’t play with me, Saint. You know exactly what I mean.”
I lift my eyes. “She’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s really…”
Wraith’s jaw tightens. “Rook told us both to keep our distance.”
“And yet,” I murmur, “you’ve never been very good at following orders yourself.”
His fists curl at his sides. “You think this is a joke?”
“Everything’s a joke,” I say softly, “if you survive it.”
He takes another step, close enough that I can smell the rain still clinging to him—wet leather, gun oil, and adrenaline. The floorboards creak under his boots, like the house itself wants to back away.
“I saw the way you looked at her after we got back,” he says. “Like she was something you could absolve. You don’t even like people, Saint. Why her?”
Why her.
The words find their mark and stick there, somewhere deep, somewhere I haven’t touched in years.
“Maybe because she bleeds honesty,” I answer, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “You circle her like a wolf waiting for her to bare her throat. But she never does, does she? She just keeps watching you—learning, surviving. It’s… impressive.”
His mouth twists. “That’s not what it looked like behind that warehouse.”
Ah. There it is. The wound.
I stand slowly, setting my drink down with a quiet clink. “You’re angry because you wanted to be the one she kissed.”
He moves before I can blink—hand slamming against the wall beside my head, the other gripping my shirt. The whiskey breath between us is sharp, edged with fury.
“I’m angry,” he growls, “because you’re reckless. Because Rook trusts you to be the one who doesn’t break.”
“Trust is overrated,” I say, voice calm despite the pulse thundering in my throat.
His breath hits my cheek—rough, hot. “You’re going to stay away from her.”
I tilt my head, study him the way I would a loaded gun. “If that’s what you need to believe.”
The silence stretches. Tight. Wire-thin. Then he releases me, stepping back with a sound that’s half disgust, half restraint. “You think you’re so damn holy,” he spits. “Like you’re above the rest of us.”
“Not holy,” I murmur, reaching for my drink again. “Just forgiven less often.”
He pauses at the door, hand on the frame, shoulders tense. “You’re going to regret it, Saint. Whatever this is—you’ll choke on it. Just like the fucking rest of us.”
“Maybe,” I say, smiling faintly. “But at least it’ll taste like her.”
The door slams, and the echo vibrates through the room long after he’s gone. The whiskey burns as it goes down, hot and bitter. I lean back in the chair, tracing the map’s routes with a finger, the ones that lead back to Damien—and maybe, to her.
Wraith doesn’t understand. None of them do.
I didn’t kiss her to save her.
I kissed her because, for the first time in years, I felt something.
And that—more than the Syndicate, more than Damien, more than the ghosts that haunt this house—is what will ruin me.
The door’s echo is still vibrating through the study when I decide.
It isn’t a conscious choice. It’s instinct. Rebellion. Sin responding to invitation.
Wraith told me to stay away from her.
Which, of course, means I won’t.
I leave the study without bothering to turn off the lamp.
The hallway is dark, the old lights low and ambered, casting long shadows across the walls.
The house has that cathedral hush again—the kind that makes you whisper even when you’re alone.
Rain rattles against the windows, restless and hungry, and I can feel her somewhere above me like a pulse.
Second floor. Third door on the right.
I don’t knock.
I open it quietly, controlled, the way I was taught to enter rooms that might break me.
Her light is on.
She’s standing near the window, barefoot, hair loose down her shoulders in wild copper waves, the city bleeding gold and gray behind her.
She’s changed—out of the jacket, into something soft and thin that clings to her like it knows it’s allowed.
Her arms are crossed, shoulders tense, as if she can still feel the night clinging to her skin.
She turns when the door clicks shut. Her eyes widen just a fraction. Not fear. Not surprise.
Recognition.
“Saint,” she says. My name in her mouth is a question and an invitation all at once. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
I lean back against the door, crossing my arms. “You sound disappointed.”
Her lips part, then close. “I sound observant.”
“Liar.” I let my gaze drag over her, slow and unapologetic. “You sound like you were hoping.”
Color blooms high on her cheeks. Beautiful. Infuriating.
“You should go,” she says, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t tell me to get out.
I push off the door and walk toward her, unhurried, letting the space between us shrink inch by inch. “Wraith told me to stay away from you.”
Her breath catches. “And you came anyway.”
“Of course I did.”
I stop just in front of her. Close enough that I can feel the heat from her skin, smell the faint trace of paint and rain and something purely her. She tilts her chin up, defiant even now, even here.
“Why?” she asks.
I lift a hand, slow, giving her every chance to stop me. She doesn’t. My fingers brush her wrist first—just skin, just warmth—before sliding up to her forearm. Goosebumps rise instantly.
“Because you’re not a temptation,” I murmur. “You’re a provocation.”
Her breath shudders.
“Because you look at us like you’re trying to decide whether to run or rule,” I continue, stepping closer, until the front of her body brushes mine. “And because you make men who haven’t knelt in years want to.”
Her eyes darken. “You talk like you think I’m dangerous.”
I smile. “Divine, actually.”
The word lands heavy between us.
I lift my hand to her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her lip. She inhales sharply, her pulse jumping under my touch. I don’t claim her. I don’t take. I hover. “You feel it too,” I say quietly. “Don’t you?”
She swallows. “I feel… something.”
“Say it.”
Her voice drops. “I feel like I’m standing too close to a fire.”
My thumb traces the corner of her mouth. “Good. Fire is honest.”
Her lashes flutter. I can see the fight in her—every instinct screaming caution, every nerve screaming yes. She doesn’t step back. Neither do I. When I kiss her, it’s slow. A sin dressed as patience.
No rush. No hunger. Just pressure and warmth and the quiet, devastating intimacy of choice.
Her breath stutters into mine. Her hands lift, hesitating for a heartbeat before fisting into my shirt. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away—holding steady.
I deepen it just slightly, enough to feel the shape of her mouth, the soft sound she makes when she forgets herself. My other hand slides to her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her hip. She fits there. Too easily.
She exhales against my mouth, and it’s the most dangerous sound I’ve heard in years.
I pull back before it turns into something else. Before it becomes something I can’t pretend is a mistake.
Her eyes are glassy. Lips parted. Breathing shallow.
“Saint,” she whispers.
“Little lamb,” I murmur, brushing my forehead to hers, “you are going to ruin us.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “You’re the one who came in here like you were seeking absolution.”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Yes,” I admit. “I did.”
I step back, slowly, giving her space even as it clearly costs her something. It costs me more.
“You should sleep,” I say. “Tomorrow gets uglier.”
Her voice is barely sound. “You’re not staying?”
“No.” I reach for the door. “If I stay, I won’t behave.”
Her lips twitch. “You weren’t behaving anyway.”
I grin. “I was restrained.” I open the door, then pause, looking back at her—flushed, breathing hard, eyes still burning. “Goodnight, my divine trouble,” I murmur.
And then I leave, the hallway swallowing me whole, her scent still on my hands and her defiance still humming through my blood.
Wraith is going to lose his mind.