Chapter 21
Waking up next to Saint always felt good—her hair in my face, her knee in my ribs, that familiar weight pressed up against me. But waking up to the slick heat of her mouth wrapped around my cock? That’s fucking paradise.
I open my eyes to the sight of her between my legs, dark hair tangled around her face, eyes locked on mine.
Her mouth is heaven—hot, wet, greedy, taking me deep before pulling back slow, tongue tracing the head, teasing every nerve ending raw.
My hand fists in the sheets, hips bucking helplessly as she drags her tongue along my shaft, lazy as a cat, like she’s got all the time in the world.
“Fuck, Saint—don’t stop, you know what that does to me—”
“Good morning.” She hums, lips curving into a smirk, and the vibration nearly undoes me. Just when I’m right on the edge, she pulls off, stroking me slow with her hand, watching me fight for control. I growl her name, nearly begging, and she just licks the tip, lazy as hell.
“You like making me suffer, Pícarita?” I rasp, voice half-broken.
She doesn’t answer. Just goes back down on me, sucking harder, tongue working the underside, building me up again—faster this time, like she wants to break me.
I’m close, too fucking close, and then she pulls back again, letting my cock slip free with a pop.
My body aches for her, balls tight, the ache almost painful now.
“Goddamn it, Saint—” My hands tangle in her hair, trying to guide her, but she just grins, wicked and sure, and ignores me.
“So impatient, Alejandro.”
The third time, I’m a mess—sweating, shaking, desperate. She lets me get right to the brink, my cock throbbing against her tongue, and then stops again, mouth trailing down my thigh, watching me squirm. I curse in Spanish, every muscle tight.
“Please, fuck—Saint, please—”
The fourth time, she finally shows mercy, swallowing me down until I hit the back of her throat, moaning as she takes everything I give her.
I’m already gasping, barely holding on. “God damn—Saint, just like that, don’t stop—please—” I choke out, voice breaking as she sucks harder, her grip bruising my thigh.
“God, you’re going to kill me—mierda, Saint, I’m—”
I come hard, hips jerking, a raw groan tearing out of me. “Saint—that’s it, fuck, that’s so good—” My words tumble out half-Spanish, half-begging, lost in the wet heat of her mouth as she drinks it all, slow and deliberate, swallowing like she wants to savor the taste of me.
I collapse back, boneless, chest heaving, a wreck beneath her. There’s nothing left in me but gratitude and a low, guttural laugh.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and flashes me that savage grin. I’m ruined, and I fucking love it.
She grabs her clothes off the floor and heads for the door, tossing a look over her shoulder. “Your cock was about to bore a hole in my back, so I thought I’d help you out a little.”
I push up on my elbows, managing a half-smirk. “I appreciate your dedication to the cause.”
She just snorts and disappears out the door, turning toward the bathroom.
I flop back, scrubbing my hands over my face, still catching my breath. I’m half-tempted to follow her, haul her up onto the sink, and bury my mouth between her legs—but then my phone starts buzzing from somewhere in the tangle of last night’s clothes.
I sit up, keeping the sheet over my lap, and dig through my pants until I find it. One glance at the encrypted message, and my stomach sinks.
Fuck. The bounty on Saint hasn’t just gone up—it’s quadrupled.
It was already the highest contract on the books—ten million, dead or alive, collectable by any Guild or freelancer willing to try.
Now? Five hundred million. Enough to make every desperate rat in the underworld start sniffing for blood. No expiration. No mercy.
This changes everything. Makes our next move damn near suicidal.
Before I can even process it, Frank pokes his head in, the mole-man’s coke-bottle glasses catching the light. “The car I secured is here. You can blow it up if you need to.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Thanks, Frank. Can’t make any promises.”
He disappears as fast as he came, muttering something about explosives and ramen.
I stare at the phone. Half a billion fucking dollars on Saint’s head. Every hour we’re aboveground is a risk.
I type out a reply back to my broker. “We need a new plan. Fast.”
Vincenzi Tower rises like a glass blade in the heart of downtown Chicago, all steel, mirrored panels, and money.
The kind of place that pretends not to notice the blood in its own drains.
Saint and I walk in like we belong, eyes up, reading everyone and everything.
The security guard at the desk gives us a glance, but nothing more. Another Tuesday.
We stop in front of the polished granite directory and Saint adjusts her backpack straps while we scour the board. There it is, sandwiched between a law firm and an “innovation startup” that’s probably just a shell: Morley & Brandt LLP – Certified Public Accountants. Floor 32.
Boring. Perfect.
We weigh our options fast, low-voiced—book it as a walk-in and risk a desk jockey looking us up? Pull the fire alarm and draw every security goon in a ten-block radius? Neither is good, not with this many eyes.
Saint nudges my arm before I can decide. “There,” she murmurs. Two janitors and a supervisor, pushing big rolling carts stacked with trash bags and cleaning supplies, vanish through a set of double doors that someone left propped open.
We lock eyes. No words needed. In less than a minute, we’re inside, moving like ghosts—Saint is already digging through a laundry bag for uniforms, and I lift a ring of keys off a too-trusting supervisor.
She raises an eyebrow at me, smirking as she pulls her hair into a knot and snaps on a pair of blue gloves.
Within minutes, we’re janitors. Disposable, invisible, everywhere and nowhere. I shove a trash cart in front of us for cover, Saint takes the clipboard, and together we move through a side corridor toward the service elevator.
Nobody notices the help.
I scan the key ring—sure enough, one is labeled “32.” As we step into the elevator, Saint leans close, voice barely audible: “Let’s keep this quiet. In and out.”
I hit the button for floor thirty-two. The doors close with a hush, and we start to climb, all the pressure and risk bearing down as we move higher, closer to the wolves.
Floor thirty-two. We slip out of the elevator and hit the rear entrance—one quick turn with the key, but Saint’s already picking it, multitool flashing in her hand. No rush. Nothing draws attention like a janitor sprinting. We move slow, emptying a few bins, eyes scanning the maze of nameplates.
Then I see it. “Thank fuck, he’s got a private office,” I mutter, nodding at a door at the end. Saint’s on it, popping the lock faster than I can blink. Inside—dark, blinds drawn, the only light from the city outside.
She’s already flipping open the burner Grim gave her, hitting speaker before it rings. Grim picks up on the first buzz—voice all teenage cockiness, no business being this deep in assassin shit.
“We’re in the dead guy’s office,” Saint says. “I need everything you can pull, fast.”
I’m elbow-deep in the file cabinet, rifling through ghosts. All standard for a dirty accounting firm—aliases, payouts, shell companies, contracts for jobs that never happened. Caleb Thatcher, “The Houseguest.” Low-level stuff. Stamped deceased. Nothing new, nothing worth dying over.
Saint’s wrangling Grim like always—bossy, sharp, not actually related but they spar like family. He texts her a link, tells her to stick the phone near the computer.
“It’s not even on,” she gripes.
“So turn it on,” Grim fires back, pure attitude.
Saint boots it. Password screen blinks and dies—Grim’s already inside. Code flashes, progress bars crawl, windows flicker as he rips the guts out of the drive. Saint leans in, watching. She’s not interested in chatter, only what got this guy dead.
Grim’s running his mouth. “Jesus, this guy was a nerd. Chewbacca wallpaper, Chewbacca memes—does anyone over thirty even—wait.”
He goes silent. Suddenly, a wave of documents opens—fake news headlines, dozens at once, flooding the screen.
Headline: Presidential Candidate Assassinated at World Energy Summit
Sub headline: Rogue mercenary Saint James assassinated Presidential hopeful at World Energy Summit. After an extensive manhunt, the assassin opened fire on law enforcement and was killed. Three officers were injured, no fatalities.
It hits. Saint goes rigid. Grim is dead quiet. I stare at the screens—her obituary, set to auto-publish.
Saint reads it again, voice flat: “Assassin opened fire on law enforcement and was killed.”
Silence, thick as blood.
I clear my throat. “Well, at least they had the decency to make you go out guns blazing. Beats death by food poisoning.”