Page 50 of Dirty Little Saint

The rage billows inside me. I lift him out of the chair by his collar and slam him against the wall. The sigil on my chest flares. It sears my flesh, digging into my muscles like an invisible dagger. My need to protect, to defend, to avenge consumes me.

“FUCKING tell me,” I roar in his face.

He whimpers but holds my gaze. “The texts came from a phone registered to Barnaby Withers… He’s an errand boy for your father.”

It feels as if all the veins in my neck are about to burst. I pin him against the wall, my forearm pressed into his neck. “What the fuck are you talking about? That name means nothing to me. You’re lying.”

He shakes his head. “I swear. He used to bring me nightshade every Friday after class. I thought I recognized the number at first, but it’s been so long… I wasn’t in my right mind back then.”

Fuck.

I let him go, and he drops to the floor with a thud. “You will tell no one about this.” I wave my finger in his face.

He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “I’d say we’re square now, don’t you think?”

This motherfucker. Tit for fucking tat. I snicker. “I’ll get rid of the pool video. But I’m keeping the rest. And if you’re wrong? Fucking hell. There won’t be a place far enough away for you to run to.”

He nods. “I’m not. Er, wrong or running. I might be a coward, but I’m not a liar. Maybe this guy acted on his own.”

I side-eye him. “Come on, Professor, you know my father better than that. He loves leverage more than he does his own family.”

“I’m sorry you were brought up that way. Truly. This world we live in… well, it’s hard and unforgiving. No matter where we go, our demons follow us.” His eyes are haunted, dark, and disturbed.

I suddenly feel bad for the guy. There’s a reason he got hooked on poison to begin with. “We all have our vices, Professor. But eventually, not even they can keep the nightmares at bay. They end up making them worse.”

“Believe me, I know,” he murmurs.

I snatch the bottle of whiskey on my way out the door. “I think I need this more than you do right now.”

He nods, his face pale, but he doesn’t utter another word. I think we both hope that we don’t have to talk to each other ever again.

I empty a vial of oleander into the whiskey bottle and shake it up before taking a huge swig. My fingers twitch, and my pulse races as I head toward the Nest to go track down Barnaby Withers. Murder would be a mercy. But I have no fucking mercy in me today. Not until he tells me exactly what my asshole father has been up to.

It takes me less than fifteen minutes to find out which room this prick is in. When you’re Atlas Thorn, all you have to do is give a few girls a little extra attention, bat your pretty blue-green eyes, and they squeal like fucking pigs.

I approach the door and take a deep breath, closing my eyes as I siphon my power into the doorknob. I lift its internal latch, unlocking it within seconds. I can smell Barnaby’s fear the moment he sees me barge through the door.

“Hey, you c-can’t just come in here,” he stammers.

My skin tingles as the fibers between my veins stretch out and pulse, filling with adrenaline and rage. I cross the room to him in two large strides, grabbing him by the throat when I’m within reach.

“You’ve been a naughty boy, Barnaby. Time to answer for your crimes,” I threaten.

A steady stream of piss shoots out, soaking his jeans. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I dig my fingertips into his neck, aching to crush his windpipe, knowing that I can without breaking a sweat. But I need him alive. For now.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. And you’re going to tell me everything. Starting with why my father hired you to torment Maureen Blackwell.” I lighten up on the pressure just enough to give him a chance to speak.

His eyes bulge, and the uptick of his pulse beats against my palm. “I-I didn’t want to do it. But you know how… persuasive your father is.”

Of course, I fucking know. I know him better than anyone. He’s charming, good-looking, and butter could melt in his mouth. The complete opposite of Holden Graves, my father presents himself as a fucking saint. But I know better. His deceit and depravity are subtle, but they’re there, simmering below the surface of his expensive suits and shiny white teeth.

“What does he have on you?”

As Barnaby shakes his head, a stream of snot drips out of his nose, landing on his upper lip. “Nothing.”

Fuck. I’m losing patience with this sniveling idiot. I really want to snap his fucking neck. “Then what did he promise you?”

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