Chapter 6 Saint #2
“What? Why not? I won’t tell. I promise. You can trust me. Please, Calder, just let me go home. I want to go home.” I’m not above begging if that’s what it takes.
“Home?” His harsh laugh is humorless. “Do you think this is a joke? A game?”
“Of course not—-”
“You can’t go home, Saint. You try to go home and you’re dead. My father will kill you himself, and he won’t even bat an eye.”
The casual way he says it, like my death is inevitable, a mere matter of who and when, sends cold dread slithering down my spine.
“Then… then what… ?” My voice breaks. “What are you going to do with me? Why am I here?”
Sighing, he drags a hand through his dark hair and I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the mask. Worry and frustration are etched into the lines of his face. “I’m still figuring that part out.”
“Figuring it out?” Hysteria bubbles up in my chest. “What does that mean?” I need an answer before I explode. “Please tell me.”
He doesn’t tell me though. All I get is a head shake in response. That’s not good enough for me. I want to know what the hell is going to happen next. I’ve been sitting here all day. Consumed with fear. I have a right to know what’s going to happen.
“Tell me what that means!”
“Goddammit.” Calder snaps. “You’re acting like I wanted this to happen. Like I fucking planned for you to open that door.”
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes. I’ve never seen him angry like this, never experienced his wrath. How could I when I don’t even know him? “I was trying to help someone!”
“Hows that going for you?” His voice drops low, rough, each word dragged out like he wants me to feel the weight of it.
Moving closer he looms over the bed, his size and presence is overwhelming in the small space.
The muscles in his jaw clench, lips curling back just enough to show the anger simmering there.
His eyes—dark, unblinking—pin me down harder than his shadow.
“This should prove as an example to you, to mind your own business. If you would’ve stayed inside, where you were safe, you wouldn’t be here right now.
” His mouth twists on the word safe, like it’s poison.
A humorless smile ghosts his lips, then vanishes as if it was never there.
“But you didn’t. You had to do what you always do.
Help. Care. Be your overly good fucking self! ”
How dare he act like my compassion is a character flaw, like trying to help someone is a sin. How dare he! Anger cuts through my fear, hot and bright, making me volatile, and braver than I really am.
“I’m sorry if my good nature offends you—” the words tear out of me in a growl as I wrench against the handcuff, the steel biting into my wrist, “—that I wanted to save someone’s life. That I couldn’t stand there and watch a man bleed out on my porch. Not all of us are heartless monsters like you.”
Calder’s lip curls into a mocking smile. “Finally. I was worried you might still see me as the hero. Happy to see that kiss didn’t go to your head.”
I can’t believe I ever thought there was anything good inside him. That I even cared about him. That I gave him my first kiss.
My throat tightens, but the words tumble out anyway. “Kissing you was the biggest mistake I ever made and I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
My chest aches as the lie burns through me. I swear he flinches as if my words have the power to hurt him. I was naive to think that there was something good inside him. That maybe he was worth going against everything I was raised to believe.
“If you’re trying to hurt my feelings you’ll have to try harder.”
“Why didn’t you just kill me? You had the chance. Why cause all this trouble for yourself?”
The change is immediate. His shoulders tense beneath his shirt, and a vein stands out in his neck, pulsing with the effort to stay controlled.
Right now, he looks less like the untouchable monster my father painted him as and more like a man cornered by his own truth.
He curls his hands into fists at his sides, the knuckles straining white.
“I don’t have an answer for you.”
“Well, I want one.”
“That’s too damn bad, sweetheart, because you aren’t getting one.” The endearment doesn’t hit its mark and I wouldn’t want to be his sweetheart anyway.
“You did this for a reason, and I want to know what that reason is.”
“Sometimes there isn’t a reason, Saint. Sometimes people do things and they don’t know why.” His gaze darts to my wrist, the one cuffed to the bed. “Now do you think you could shut your mouth for five minutes? I need to check that wound and make sure you didn’t hurt yourself too badly.”
What’s it matter if I hurt myself? Why does he care at all what happens to me?
“You don’t need to check anything.”
“Saint—”
“No. I don’t want your help.” I press my back against the headboard, and lift my other hand to bat him away.
It’s useless since he could easily overpower me if he wanted to but it’s the only way I can fight back.
I don’t want his kindness. I don’t want anything to do with him.
“You don’t get to hurt me, and then pretend you care about what happens to me. ”
His jaw clenches. “Use your head. You’re bleeding.”
“Good. I don’t care.”
“Well I do.” And just like that, he’s on me. I try to scramble away but there’s nowhere to go, the chain jerks, stopping me, biting into my tender flesh.
“No! Don’t—” The protest dies when his hand closes around my wrist—the injured one. His grip is gentle despite his size, and it’s the touch of his warm calloused hand that makes every nerve ending in my body seize up. His fingers, the heat of his skin. It feels nice, and I hate it.
My pulse thrums against his fingers, frantic, and traitorous, revealing a truth I won’t say aloud. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Like a doctor, he examines the raw, bleeding skin with clinical interest. “This is going to get worse if you don’t stop pulling against the cuff.”
I don’t respond. The proximity of his body is overwhelming my nervous system.
His scent, the same cedar and leather smell that clings to the cotton shirt I’m wearing, mixed with something clean, like soap makes me dizzy.
I try to avert my gaze but it’s hard when he’s right there.
This close, I can see the individual whiskers of stubble along his jaw, and the way his dark lashes frame those cold blue eyes.
He’s beautiful. Or I guess he would be beautiful if he weren’t such a monster.
“I’m going to clean your wrist,” he says, still holding it carefully. “And put some antibiotic ointment on it. Are you going to let me do it or are you going to fight me?”
I don’t understand why he’s asking for my permission. He’s going to do it whether I agree or not. Stupidly, my brain finds the smallest bit of comfort in the fact that he’s asking me, like my permission matters to him, which makes no sense, but then again. None of this makes much sense to me.
“Just do it,” I whisper.
He releases my wrist slowly, straightening with deliberate ease.
When he turns, my blood cools at the sight of the bag I hadn’t noticed he brought with him.
I keep my eyes locked on him out of caution while he unzips it and pulls out a first-aid kit—a nice one, not the cheap kind from the drugstore.
Returning to my side, he sets it on the bed, opens it, and pulls out antiseptic wipes and ointment.
“Warning you now, this is going to sting,” he announces, his gaze burning into mine.
I can only nod. The feel of his warm breath fanning against my skin makes it increasingly difficult to remember that he’s a killer.
A moment later, he cleans the raw wound, and I’m unable to stop myself from flinching.
Fire pricks at my skin, and I grit my teeth against the pain to stop from crying out.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I’ve shown enough weakness.
Despite my flinching, his touch remains gentle, his movements sure. It makes me wonder how many times he’s done this? Does he hurt people and patch them up often?
Get a grip, Saint.
I have no reason to care what he does or doesn’t do. He’s a murderer, and the second I forget that little fact is the second I’m dead.
After wrapping my wrist with bandaging tape, he packs up the first-aid kit. The room is silent, and quiet only heightens my anxiety.
What happens now?
I’m tempted to ask again, but at the same time, I don’t want to know.
Turning his back to me, he moves toward the small kitchen area. I watch him warily, my newly bandaged wrist resting in my lap. Back at the bag, he pulls more items out—bread, sandwich meat, cheese, and a few more water bottles.
I’m thrilled to see real food, not just protein bars. Without missing a beat, he assembles a sandwich, and brings it over, setting it beside me on the bed.
“Eat.” He’s not asking, he’s demanding and I don’t like it.
I stare at the sandwich, my stomach simultaneously churning and growling. “I’m not hungry.”
“Are you really going to continue with this charade? You said you didn’t care that you were bleeding and now your wrist is bandaged.
Now you’re telling me you aren’t hungry when I can clearly hear your stomach growling.
Stop being difficult. We both know this can only end one of two ways.
So are you going to eat on your own, or am I going to have to shove the food down your throat? ”
“I’m not being difficult. I said I’m not hungry.”
“Saint!” The way he says my name, like a father scolding his child, promises punishment if I push further.
I’m tempted to push him further, but there’s a reminder at the back of my mind telling me to tread carefully.
Reluctantly, I reach for the sandwich with my free hand, hating myself for giving in so easily.
The truth is I’m starving, and even if I don’t want him to know I know that being stubborn won’t help me if I need the strength later.