Chapter 20 Indie
Indie
With Arms Wide Open - Creed
Present day
My gaze is locked on the window. Fear nips at my chest as the same vulnerability I felt from that night threatens to make a reappearance.
The muscles from my neck all the way along my shoulders constrict; tiny needles skitter across my exposed bare flesh when I feel his eyes on me.
The groves of the gun feel like they’re imprinted into my palms with how tightly I grip it, and I calmly guide my finger to the trigger, letting the tip rest delicately against the groove.
Shit.
Don’t. Panic. Indie.
I angle my head gradually to my shoulder, the looming figure piercing into my peripheral.
He doesn’t move, but I know it’s John.
He tracked us down.
A fucking Sumus member is in my fucking house.
Despite the anxiety threatening to tear me apart inside, none of it reflects on the surface.
I keep the tremors contained, hold the scream at the back of my throat lodged where it is. I have the upper hand here.
I can shift the gun through the crevasse of my waist and arm, down him, and allow myself to fully face him.
I decide to taunt him, testing to see if my threat causes a distraction whilst I get into position.
“And here was me, thinking I’d have to come back and finish the job.”
The bite of cold from the gun’s muzzle slides across my ribs, but my face remains impassive.
“I’d love to see you try, Indie.”
My stone-like mask crumbles; the facade drops like a curtain call as the oxygen in my lungs expels.
The world feels like it’s violently flipped upside down.
My gun almost slips from my hand as my joints weaken. I blink rapidly, like I’m trying to ensure I’m still at least firmly gripped within reality.
I can’t move, can’t even dare myself to turn around yet.
It can’t be.
I don’t know how long I stay frozen; time seems irrelevant when you’re about to reveal the past, but neither of us makes an attempt to shatter the silence.
Closing my eyes, I drag in one large, painful inhale, hands trembling across my torso, and then force myself to turn on weak legs.
My gaze collides with hard, steel-like eyes, and the owner of a voice I haven’t heard in almost six years.
A wave of homesickness threatens to drown me, witnessing his knee-buckling smirk gracing his face, and that velvet midnight voice wrapping around me.
“My, my, Indie. Haven’t you been a busy girl?”
Everything crashes into me at once.
I suck in the thick air, losing my footing as I tumble backwards, my back hitting off the wall.
Saint is leaning against my doorframe, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his broad chest.
Dressed in…
Covered in…
Oh my fucking God.
It was him.
He looks nothing like the man I fell in love with, my eyes desperately roaming over him as I take an inventory of his changes.
Cloaked in dark sketches of ink, from the tips of his fingers, all the way to that sharp jaw I used to trace with the pads of my fingertips.
His physique was lean before, but seeing him this close, he’s gained at least thirty pounds of muscle.
Those trap muscles strain against his dark shirt, along with the biceps that are threatening to tear through the material.
He looks like a walking weapon.
He looks like the man I almost killed.
His name leaves my lips in a raw whisper.
“Saint?”
It weaves with a library of emotions, the first time I’ve been able to voice it in years.
Never did I think it would finally be when I saw his unearthly beautiful face.
Saint pushes off the door in one fluid movement, stalking towards me. Even from afar, I can see the grey in his eyes hum like a plasma ball, and he moves with the lethal grace of a predator on the hunt.
Something I was once used to, but this version of it is utterly terrifying.
I used to crave the spike in my blood watching it, but this?
He looks downright fucking unnerving.
And fuck, is my body roaring to life at the sight.
The tension in the room soars as he inches closer to me. His sinful scent is the second of my senses to be abused, forcing my eyes to flutter closed. My lungs don’t want to work; I couldn’t beg them to take an inhale if I tried. They’re keeping that nostalgia locked tightly inside them.
The sensation makes me lightheaded, risking me to black out as my pulse roars like a jackhammer.
His hand brushes against mine. Electricity sparks across my skin as my eyes snap open, watching him take the gun from me.
“I’m just laying it on the table. Wouldn’t want you getting trigger happy, would we?”
My grip eases to let him take it, his eyes never leaving mine as he leans to the side, placing it on the bed.
When he stretches back to his full height, I’m reminded just how intimidating it is, even more so now.
All my strength is reserved for keeping me upright, and my voice comes out on a shallow breath. “How did you find me?”
I feel tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, now getting a chance to really look at him.
His hand reaches out, tucking a loose strand of wet hair behind my ear.
“I think you found me, darling.” The knots in my chest grind together. “Albeit you had a fucking laser sight pointing at my chest. Care to explain?”
I can’t find my voice, can’t even get a coherent thought together.
There are so many questions I want to ask that my answer to him feels irrelevant.
“Where did you go?”
My gaze flickers around his face, trying to work out if this is real.
Saint was always profoundly handsome, he still is, but right now he looks like a sinfully corrupted God.
My arms ache to wrap themselves around his waist, hands itching to reach out and touch him, but I keep them fisted at my sides, my nails digging painfully into my palms.
He walks backwards, dropping down to sit on the bed, spreading his legs as his elbows rest on his knees, staring up at me.
I’m grateful for the distance, because being so close to him was making it hard to breathe, but yet, I can already feel my heart pining for him to come back.
“Don’t make me ask twice, Indie.” His tone drops to a dangerous level.
The warning in its base seems to snap me out of the trance I was in, the fog clearing slightly to allow some lucidity through.
I wet my lips, trying to find the right words. “Your ex sent us—”
“The only ex I have is standing right in front of me.”
I frown at his answer, even though his words spike my heart rate.
His only.
Fuck, so much has happened over the last couple days, everything merging into one.
He’s not John…he’s Saint.
My Saint.
“You’re weren’t supposed to be at that cabin,” I admit, my voice breaking, trying to keep the tears at bay.
An abundance of emotions are threatening to overrun me right now, all of them fighting for dominance as they race to the surface.
He sighs, running a hand through his textured hair. He’s shed the floppy strands he used to have, the sides shaved down short, but his movement ruffles the strands on top away from each other in a messy bundle.
I loved that feeling, watching him in my lap whilst I played with those silky strands, the nostalgia making the tips of my fingers tingle.
“What the fuck do you mean by that, Indie?”
I stare at him.
I trusted Saint with my life, more than any other living, breathing soul.
And even after all these years, the distance and pain separating us, I still do.
It might be foolish, but I always was when it came to him. I never did learn my lesson when he warned me about loving him.
Now it looks as though it’s come back to bite me in the ass.
“We thought you were someone else…a name on our list.” My words break apart again, the voice in my head repeating itself over and over like I’ve fallen into a manic episode.
Is he really here?
“What do you mean, a fucking list?” he growls, his brows creasing as he eyes me suspiciously.
I force in a deep breath.
Saint might never look at me the same again, or worse, he might be horrified by me, thinking I really am broken beyond comparison.
Worse than the last time we stood this close.
“Indie?”
His voice tugs my attention back to him; it’s so softly spoken compared to just a minute ago, and it has the butterflies fluttering the cobwebs off their broken wings inside me.
“I thought you were someone else…and I was there to kill them.”
Saint’s brows almost shoot to his hairline, letting my statement sink into each area of his brain, before he drops his head and rubs a thumb and index finger against his closed eyes.
“Am I having trouble with my fucking hearing? Did you just say…kill?”
He glares up at me, and I feel smaller than I ever have before, shame starting to leak inside me, and I can only manage a whisper.
“Yes.”
He drops his gaze, arms dangling between his legs as he stares at the ground. “What the fuck have you been doing, Indie? Who the hell do you work for?”
A sudden urge to explain myself fights its way out my mouth, the words stumbling over each other. “I—We have our own business. We use it to kill off some membe—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, don’t finish that sentence.”
He glances up at me in total disbelief, looking at me like I’m a total stranger.
Yeah, I’ve changed too, Saint. I learned how to survive in my own way.
I’ve done okay so far—I only ever hoped you’d be proud of me for still standing.
My arms wrap around my chest, protecting myself from whatever judgement’s going through his head.
He rises off the bed when I speak again, trying to fill the silence whilst he paces between the small space between us.
I can’t find strength in my voice. “What?”
“What do you mean, what? You’re a fucking assassin now? How the fuck did you get into that work? And who hired you?”
I grind my jaw, defensiveness heating me from the inside out. “No one. Regina and I work on this alone. It’s our thing. No one has any idea who we are or what we do—”
“Gina’s involved too?” He cuts me off, and annoyance seems to have entered the chat, because I’m ready to swing a right hook at him if he does it one more time.
“She does the technical side,” I bite out.
“So you do the killing side?”