Page 73 of His Sinner

His blank, unfeeling eyes widen when they land on Saint. He points at the man I love. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I was just thinking the same about you.” Saint is vibrating with barely contained rage.

One word from me would unleash him.

But Mack was right. If anyone deserves to kill Trevor—James—it’s her.

She’s still pointing her gun at him.

“You fucking shot me!” he wails.

“My aim’s usually better.” Her voice shakes as much as her hands, but there’s a lethal strength beneath them. I’ve never been so proud of her.

“Toss me your phone,” I call.

“What?” Trevor’s wild gaze flies to me.

“Give me your phone!”

“Okay!” He holds one hand up while the other slips into his pocket and tosses the phone to me, where it lands on the ground between us with a wet thud. “There! Okay? Please, just call an ambulance.”

I snatch up the phone and retreat until Saint’s arm is around me again. “What’s the passcode?”

He gasps out the numbers. “6-2-2-5.”

The numbers spell out Mack.

With trembling hands, I quickly find the video of Trevor and April in his phone and wipe it from existence. I won’t let him victimize another woman again.

Now we can finish this. “Kill him, Mack.”

The torrential rain soaks us all to the bone, mixing with the blood traveling down Trevor’s face. He freezes, gaze glued to Mack.

But she doesn’t pull the trigger again.

Panic makes my heart skip. She did say she wasn’t sure she could kill. Maybe, even after everything he’s put her through, she can’t bring herself to end Trevor’s pathetic life.

The side of his mouth lifts in an arrogant smirk. He knows.

He knows she can’t bring herself to kill him.

He takes a step toward her.

I nearly throw myself in between them, but Saint stops me. I wouldn’t reach them before Trevor would be on Mack again.

“You’re better than them, Mack,” he croons. “You’re not a killer. You’re my angel, remember?”

Bile churns in my stomach at his words. “Don’t listen to him, Mack! Give Saint the gun! He’ll end this.”

Mack doesn’t even glance in my direction. Paralyzed.

Trevor takes another hobbling step toward her. And another. Holding out his hand for the gun.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck?—

Saint grabs my hand, squeezing like I’m his anchor. His lifeline. And he’s mine.

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