Chapter 19
Oisín
Saint has been off. Ever since I dragged him into a kiss and all but asked him how he felt about me, he’s avoided me.
He no longer takes, and the absence of that has become its own kind of touch, not the way he used to, anyway.
That should feel like victory after what happened in the office, after the public humiliation.
I wanted a line, and for once Saint seems to be standing on his side of it.
He hasn’t dragged me upstairs to turn anger into bruises.
He hasn’t ordered me to my knees during a call.
He hasn’t come to bed with his hands already rough and his mouth at my throat like the day can only be survived if he writes himself into my skin before sleeping.
I should be relieved. Instead, I feel hollow in a way that makes me furious with myself.
I just wanted him to respect that line, not avoid it altogether. It’s like I broke something in him, or maybe I only found the broken place and put my thumb against it.
Bricks finds me two days later at the bar while Saint is in a closed meeting with Moth. He sets a coffee beside me, which is alarming because Bricks has never brought me anything that wasn’t either a warning or a problem.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Coffee.”
“I know what coffee is.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
I look at the mug, then at him. “Because you brought it.”
Bricks lowers himself onto the stool beside me with a grunt. “Tally said you looked like shit, and Demo said if he told you that, you’d take it personally. I’m doing community service.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
I take the coffee because refusing would make the conversation longer, and I’m learning that Bricks has a talent for stretching discomfort until a person confesses just to end the silence.
He watches me take the first sip, then glances toward the private hall where Saint disappeared an hour ago with a report in one hand and an unreadable expression on his face.
“He’s been off,” Bricks says.
I don’t pretend not to know who he means. “I noticed.”
“You do something?”
The question has no accusation in it, which somehow makes it harder to answer. I run my thumb along my ring and watch the silver catch the bar light. “I kissed him and walked away.”
Bricks goes still for half a second before his mouth twitches. “We all know. Good for you.”
“That wasn’t the reaction I expected.”
“Saint needs people doing things he doesn’t expect. Keeps his blood moving.” He leans back, one elbow against the bar, and studies. “Push lightly.”
I look up. “What?”
“Push lightly. Don’t shove him off a cliff and act surprised when he comes back armed, but don’t fold just because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
“That’s not advice. That’s a threat with a ribbon on it.”
“It’s the best I’ve got.” Bricks’ gaze flicks toward the hall again. “You’re the first man Saint’s kept in his bed more than once. First person, really. He doesn’t keep people close once they start wanting anything from him.”
That would feel like something sweet if I hadn’t been burned so many times by thinking I was special.
Bricks seems to read enough of that on my face to soften by a fraction. “I’m not saying he knows what he’s doing.”
“That much is obvious.”
“Good. Keep that in mind before you decide he doesn’t care just because he’s acting like an emotionally damaged brick wall.”
I huff a laugh despite myself. “That’s generous to brick walls.”
“Brick walls are more communicative.” Bricks stands, slapping one hand lightly against the bar. “Push lightly, little Rogue. And duck if he starts looking like Sol.”
He leaves me with the coffee, the warning, and the terrible little spark of hope I don’t want to touch.
***
“You going to sleep anytime soon, sweetheart?” Tally asks as she steals the beer from my hand.
I frown at her. “I was still drinking that.”
“It’s 3 am, the clubhouse is empty, and you’re only here because you’re worried about your husband.
” She snorts as I open my mouth to offer a response.
“Don’t. You’re just going to sit there and lie to me.
Go to bed. I’m sure when he comes back you two can fight and fuck it out.
It’s gotten weird here and I kind of miss your smile. ”
I had no idea I had been off but it makes sense.
I push off the bar just as Saint comes back from the warehouse looking empty.
Anger is easier to read on him because it gives shape to his silence.
This is different. He walks into the clubhouse with clean clothes, bloodless hands, and eyes so devoid of emotion that every conversation within ten feet of him dies without knowing why.
The others are behind him, dead silence entering the main clubhouse as his gaze finds mine. I brace myself for whatever he’s about to try when he just heads toward the private hall.
I stand there a few moments longer before following Saint, finding him sitting against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. Just as I go to press the door open, I hear Sol.
“You’re making the same mistake she did.”
I angle myself a little to find Sol in the room standing near the window, mostly hidden by the dark, cigar unlit between his fingers. I wonder how long Sol had been in the office or if he had been waiting for Saint this entire time.
Saint doesn’t move. “Get out.”
“Eventually.”
“Now.”
Sol chuckles softly, and the sound makes my skin crawl. “You always did think repetition turned into authority if you said a thing low enough.”
Saint’s voice drops. “You don’t want to have this conversation tonight.”
“No, son. You don’t want to have it. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretches between them. I should leave.
Whatever this is, it isn’t meant for me, and Saint would hate knowing I’m standing here in the dark.
But Sol’s first sentence has already hooked into me.
The same mistake she did. I know enough about Saint to know there are very few women who can still haunt a room with him in it.
Sol moves closer to the desk, the low light catching the silver in his hair. “You’re letting the pretty thing get under your skin.”
“Careful.”
“There it is again. The growl. The warning. The performance.” Sol’s voice stays almost bored, which makes every word worse. “I’m not impressed by it. I built half of it.”
Saint’s hand flexes once on the armrest, and Sol notices.
“You think because you put a ring on him and scared the club off touching him, you’ve solved the problem,” Sol says. “That’s ownership. Ownership has rules. It can be enforced. Need is uglier. Need makes a man stupid before he admits he’s hungry.”
Saint says nothing.
Sol leans one hand on the desk. “Your mother confused the two as well. She thought needing someone meant there was something noble in being needed back. She thought wanting me to come home earlier made her honest instead of weak. In the end, all it did was give her something to leave when she decided she couldn’t get what she wanted. ”
“Don’t talk about her.”
“She left.”
Saint stands so quickly the chair shifts back an inch. “I said don’t.”
Sol finally smiles, like he has touched the exact nerve he came to find. “Owning someone and needing someone look identical from the outside. Only one survives loss.”
I step back before either of them can turn toward the door, my pulse loud enough that I’m sure the hallway can hear it. I move quickly and silently toward the bedroom with Sol’s words following me like smoke under a closed door. By the time I reach Saint’s room, my hands are shaking.
I stand there for a few moments before twisting around to close the door only to find Saint there. I jerk back so hard my shoulders hit the dresser nearby. He’s standing in the doorway a few feet away, his expression still unreadable.
His eyes move over my face. “You heard all of that.”
My mouth goes dry. “Saint—”
He crosses the room before I can finish, his lips immediately on mine. His hands catch my face, then my waist, then my jaw again as if he can’t decide where to hold me and has no patience left to choose. He kisses me like something in him is drowning and my mouth is the first air he’s found.
I know I should stop him. We’re not fine.
He’s not fine. Sol’s voice is still in my head, and Saint’s eyes had looked too empty when he came home.
But then his hand slides into my hair and his mouth opens mine, and every lonely, furious part of me that has been starving for him rises at once.
I wanted to be wanted. I wanted him to reach for me without turning it into punishment or proof.
Now he is, and the wanting in him is so raw it almost hurts to be touched by it.
I melt against him before I can build the strength to do anything else.
Saint groans into my mouth, the sound breaking something loose in my chest. He pulls me away from the dresser, walking me backward without lifting his mouth from mine. I stumble as his arm locks around my waist, steadying me with the same hand that shoves me closer.
“Saint,” I breathe against his mouth.
His hands go to my shirt, dragging it up over my head before I can decide whether to help or stop him.
Cool air hits my skin, and the sound I make disappears under his mouth when he kisses me again.
He throws the fabric aside and follows the movement with his hands, palms pressing over my shoulders, my ribs, my waist, touching places he already knows as if he has to relearn them to believe I’m still here.
The rest of my clothes come off with the same desperate impatience.
Sweatpants shoved down, his fingers at my hips, his body crowding mine until I have to hold onto him to stay balanced.
He strips me quickly, but the roughness lacks the distance he usually keeps between his want and whatever else lives underneath it.