11. Theories
11
Theories
Violet
Saint pushes off the bed—off me—and stands at the foot of it, gripping the bedposts.
I wish the room was brighter so I could see him well enough to figure out who he is. But between his all-black outfit, his ski mask, and the darkness of the room, he’s a figure towering over me.
Sitting up, I glance down at the floor, where Nixon is dead in a puddle of blood. His neck is split open. Muscle and vocal cords are cut cleanly through. If I had a weak stomach, it might do more than turn as I focus on his pale lips, but death isn’t new to me.
My mom was a single parent. A struggling nurse. She worked most weekends, and I spent more time at the hospital some weeks than I did at home on the couch.
I’ve seen sickness. I’ve seen death .
Once a body is empty, there’s nothing left to fear. It’s the moment they’re about to go that will burn itself inside you. The look in their eyes as they’re starting to fade.
Facing the unknown.
It doesn’t matter how much faith you have. In that moment, it’s tested.
And over time, I couldn’t help but become fascinated with it. Slasher movies, serial killers, jump scares. Things that get your blood pumping when the monotony of the day-to-day slowly dries you up inside. A rush that can’t be defined and can’t be matched.
Freedom from obligations.
It’s what Saint offers me, whether he realizes it or not. The hot rush that floods my veins when my heart starts to race. Not knowing if he’ll kill me, save me, or consume me. Wondering in any given moment which side of him is going to win out.
I hate him drifting through my barriers and calling out to my dark side. Especially when he unleashes it like this.
My savior.
I’m realizing more and more that’s who he honestly thinks he is. He murders in my name, and if I’m not careful, I have no doubt he could snap and turn his aggression on me at any moment.
Nothing about what he’s done is holy. And none of this is right.
“It wasn’t his fault,” I whisper, staring into Nixon’s empty, open eyes.
Saint hums. “He could have declined my offer.”
“And you’d have let him walk out of here if he had? ”
“Probably not.” He shrugs his shoulder.
He’s psychotic. Unhinged.
Saint’s dark eyes roam over me, and even if I can’t see more than the glimmer they catch when he turns his face toward the nightlight, his interest is palpable. A current hums through me, and there’s likely little he doesn’t see as he inspects every inch.
He’s a predator I should fear as he stops to focus on my blood-splattered legs. Pausing on each red spot that paints my pale skin. His fingers flex into fists, and my body betrays me as my core clenches.
“Why did you come here tonight, Violet?” Saint’s attention moves back to my face.
“Can we talk about this anywhere but here?” I glance at Nixon’s empty eyes looking up at us from the ground.
“No.”
Of course not.
Saint’s a killer. If I had to guess, he probably finds death comforting. Nixon’s lifeless corpse is a trophy of his rage, and if I’m not careful, I might become one as well.
Still, I refuse to let him see my fear. If I bow to him in the slightest, I’ll no doubt be eaten alive. I roll my shoulders back and pretend my sanity isn’t being tested. That I’m not screaming at the top of my lungs inside, willing this all to end.
“Why, Violet?” Saint’s tone is firmer this time.
“I’m here to get answers about Liam.”
“You already have them.” Saint watches me. “You and I both know he’s dead. ”
“I’m aware.” My stomach sours at his admission after he spent the morning sending messages that Liam was on vacation. “But I know there’s more to it.”
“Like what?”
“You knew me before you got in the car last night.”
He nods, and it feels like he’s giving me the tiniest inch, so I take it.
“But the app is supposed to be anonymous.”
“Nothing is ever truly anonymous.” Saint leans forward, planting his hands on the bed to bring himself closer to me.
I scoot back on instinct, but it just makes him chuckle.
“Did you know who I was when you first messaged me?” I shift back another inch. “Or only after we talked?”
“Lots of questions, kitten.” Saint shakes his head.
I don’t expect him to answer them, but I can’t keep them in. What seemed random wasn’t, and I need to know why.
Why that road?
Why Liam?
Why me?
“When you got in the car, did you know who Liam was?”
Saint stares at me, not answering. The silence radiates around us. And even if I can’t see clearly beyond the mask, I feel his eyes focused on mine.
“You did,” I answer for him. “You knew we’d be on that road headed to the party. You were there on purpose.”
He still doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t move.
Saint waits for whatever realization I’m coming to .
“You were on that road for us .” I try to scoot back more, but this time, he doesn’t let me.
Saint grabs both my ankles, pulling me down the bed toward him.
My feet dangle at either side of his hips, and his hands grip my legs. He drags his palms up my shins to my knee—to my thighs. He smears the blood flecked over my skin as he tips my legs open for him. The breeze from my skirt fluttering up reminds me my underwear is on the floor, likely sitting in a puddle of blood.
“You have a lot of theories, kitten,” Saint says, his fingers inching up farther until the tips of them brush my pussy. “So many ideas racing around in your wild little mind. You’re tempted to chase them, but you shouldn’t.”
He skates his fingers back and forth, my pulse picking up speed as he wraps his hands up over my thighs to tug me closer to him.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
He pauses. My legs spread on either side of him as he towers over me.
“You didn’t know your boyfriend like I did.”
“So, you admit it. You did know him.” It feels like a small win. “Who are you?”
Saint drags his hands between my legs, his thumbs pressing over my clit and gliding through me. My mouth parts on an exhale, and my eyes roll back as he works his hands down.
“I already told you last night. I’m your savior.” Saint bends so his face is next to mine, his mouth beside my ear, speaking low and muffled through the mask. “There are no gods here, Violet. Only devils. And your boyfriend was one of them. What I did for you was a favor, and that’s why you’ll repay me for it.”
He cups my pussy hard, taking me by surprise.
“Saint.” I grab his wrist, and I’m not sure if I’m begging him to let go or hold on.
He inhales along my neck. “Yes, Violet?”
My pulse thunders as blood floods my brain. I can’t think with the pressure he’s putting between my legs.
“Please tell me the truth.” I bite my lip when he grips me tighter. “Why did Liam have to die? What did he do?”
The softest, most haunting chuckle escapes his chest. “Nothing. He didn’t get the chance because I wouldn’t allow it.”
Saint slides a finger to my entrance but doesn’t push through. Like last night, he holds back. My nails dig into his flesh at the pressure, and even if I hate him for what he’s done, my core is a furnace.
I want his pain.
His punishment.
I want him. And it’s so wrong that I hate myself for it.
But like he reads my mind, he pulls his hand away and denies me. “Not tonight, Violet.”
“Why?”
And how disturbed does a girl have to be to ask a killer that question for a second time?
Saint circles the bed to the side where Nixon’s body is stiff on the ground, leaning to lower his mouth near my ear. Only this time, he doesn’t touch me .
“Because you want it so bad, you’re already begging. It’s too easy.”
My fingers grip the blanket, and I turn to narrow my gaze at him. “Screw you.”
I shove his shoulder and hop off the bed. It’s a risk, given he’s already held a knife to my throat twice since I’ve met him, and the threat that he’ll kill me for pissing him off is real. But if a year of criminal psychology has taught me anything, it’s that he’s not done toying with me yet.
So I’m not going to sit around and let him play with me anymore tonight. I’m exhausted. I’m at my limit. And I already know I’m sick because of the way my body was begging for him without needing him to point out that I’m pathetic.
“You’re upset.” He watches me walk to the door. But it’s not a question—more like he’s trying to understand why I’m human.
Which, I guess, would be challenging, given the fact that I’m not sure he is.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “And I’m going home. We both know I don’t need to stick around. I’m sure you’ll make this disappear like everything else.”
I wave back at Nixon’s body on the ground as I storm to the door, and I’m surprised he lets me. But as I unlock it and step into the hallway to go back up the stairs, he grabs my waist and spins me in the other direction.
“You’re not leaving that way.”
“Why not?”
“People could see you. ”
“Why does it matter?” I drop my hands to my sides, defeated—ruined. “And why do you care?”
Saint steps to me, pressing his chest to mine, and jutting his hand beneath my chin to tip my face to him. “You’re covered in blood. Wouldn’t want to raise any red flags.”
“Funny, considering you are one.”
He breathes out the faintest chuckle at my remark, and I can’t help but wonder what he looks like when he’s amused— what he looks like at all .
“This way.” He tips his head to the left and guides me in the opposite direction of the staircase. “Like you so eloquently pointed out, I’ve got bodies to bury. Can’t have you giving that away before it’s done.”
“God forbid.” I roll my eyes.
“I already told you…” Saint hums, looking down at me as we walk. “There are no gods here.”
Finally, something from his mouth I actually believe.