Page 94 of Soulless Saint

Anyway, by the time my morning shift arrived today and Kaleb showed up at six a.m. sharp, ready to ask me the same question he asked me every day, I finally, grudgingly, gave in. On one condition—I wanted a St. Vincent free day. An entire shift without seeing either of their faces on pain of hot coffee thrown directly into their smug faces.

Now, though?

I was regretting the choices of pre-coffee Becca.

That bitch was a train wreck and not to be trusted.

Look where she got us.

I plucked up whatever remaining pride I had, hefting the expensive bottle of wine I brought with me because that was what you did when you were invited to dinner, right? Right? …and rang the doorbell at 89 Poppy Lane.

In hindsight, I should’ve accepted Kaleb’s offer of a ride, the Uber from my apartment to here ran me almost eighty bucks.

What the fuck was I doing here?

Was I completely insane—

The door opened and a woman with long, graying dark hair blinked at me. At first I thought I had the wrong house, but then whatever had been holding her face hostage released her and her lips curved into a welcoming smile. “You must be Becca.”

“Um, yeah. I am,” I held out a hand to her. “And you must be Kaleb and Hardin’s mom?” Aka the woman Damien St. Vincent married barely a couple years after my mom was buried six feet under.

She looked quizzically at my hand before shaking it, her grip strong as she nodded. “Sloane,” she told me. “It’s nice to meet you. You know, it’s not often my boys invite anyone to dinner, especially not a girl.”

Should I have been flattered? Kaleb didn’t really give me a choice.

I pasted on a smile as Sloane pulled me gently into the front foyer and closed the door behind me. My throat went dry as I caught sight of the gun openly strapped to her thigh. In her own house. Why was she armed in her own house?

Jesus fucking Christ.

Maybe I should’ve brought my taser.

I cleared my throat as a man came around the corner from a different room, his wide frame filling the space. His hair was jet black with a lick of silver cutting through one side. A well-groomed salt and pepper beard covered his jaw, contrasting with his tan face. Even though I knew Diesel St. Crow and Damien St. Vincent weren’t actual brothers, I could see how easy they’d be to mistake for it.

Even with Diesel’s much fairer hair and complexion, they both had the same atmosphere surrounding them. A miasmal sense of foreboding that had my stomach turning even though he’d done nothing threatening and in fact, seemed to be smiling, however tight of a smile it was.

“This is my husband, Kale and Hardin’s Dad, Damien,” Sloane was quick to make the introduction and I awkwardly thrust the bottle of wine between myself and Damien as he approached, stopping him before he could get too close.

I scrutinized every inch of him, trying to imagine my mother with this rough, intimidating man. Failing.

“Thanks for having me,” I blurted and Damien lifted a thick black brow, taking the bottle of wine from my hand, tilting it into the light so he could read the label, his amusement obvious.

“Hunny, we don’t really drink grape juice in this house.”

“That’s a fifty dollar bottle,” I scoffed, the words coming out before I could stop them. My latent hatred for this man coming out despite trying to see past it.

“Damien,” Sloane chided, taking the bottle from him with a glare that actually had the man cringing.

He coughed. “Right. My apologies. It looks… great.”

“It is great,” I agreed. “That’s one of the best pinot noirs made in this region.” I was rambling, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “And that year, 2018, was the best harvest at that vineyard. I’m surprised I even found a bottle of it at the liquor shop on The Row. Probably only did because none of the students know a thing about wine.”

Damien’s lips pursed, and I got the sense he was holding back laughter, which made my cheeks heat.

“Clearly, at least one student does,” he replied.

I crossed my arms over my chest, holding them tight against myself, wondering if it was considered a shootable offense in this house to take off before the first course. “My dad taught me,” I muttered almost inaudibly.

“Oh, he did, did he?”

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