Page 50 of Secrets Unveiled

“Are you okay, witch stick?” I let out a small chuckle at his nickname for me and nod against his shoulder. “Everything will be okay now. Go with Saint and get some rest. You both need it.” He kisses the top of my head before pulling away from me and giving Saint a bro hug.

“Take care of her,” Saxon whispers, but I hear him. I smile at his acceptance of me and Saint. I watch the two men I care most for in this world; the fragments of my heart mold back together and warmth radiates within my chest. Saxon walks back to the two cops and speaks with them about taking over Frankie. Finn, Brooks, and Owen enter the room on cue and take Frankie away, and I know at that moment, I’ll never see my uncle again. Good riddance.

SAINT

After leaving Mayor Harrison’s house, Sage and I head home while the guys take care of Frankie. They are taking him to the basement, and I know the next twelve hours will be the last and worst hours of his pathetic life. I wanted to be there with Saxon, but he insisted on me staying with Sage, and I didn’t argue. I much prefer that option.

The ride home is quiet. I hold Sage’s hand while she lulls in and out of sleep. She is exhausted. From the motorcycle accident, to being taken from the hospital and held hostage by Frankie, I would be surprised if she wasn’t tired. When we finally get home, we make our way inside and straight to my room. I help her change out of her clothes carefully so as to not disturb her bandages and dress her in one of my oversized shirts. I also get her a couple of ibuprofens, since we hadn’t filled her medication prescription yet, and help her into my bed.

I quickly changed from my clothes as well and slide in beside her. Her warm body presses against mine, and I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her against me and never wanting to let go. We lie there in silence for a long while, allowing our hearts to calm down from the night we just experienced.

“How did you get past the guards at the mayor’s house?”

“Dante had over a dozen agents stationed around the house. Once they took down the two guards, Gloria let us in right through the front door.” I kiss her forehead, her eyes flutter shut, and she inhales a deep breath.

“I can’t believe it was Frankie all this time. I mean, we thought he was involved somehow, but I guess I wanted to believe he wouldn’t do such a thing.” Her voice is pained as she speaks. Besides Saxon, Frankie was her last living relative. Her last sense of family. It hurts knowing she’s lost so much in her short life. I want to say something, comfort her in some way, but I don’t have the words. What does someone say in a situation like this? But then, I’m not expecting her next question.

“Why didn’t you tell me you saved me that day from the fire?” My hand that’s rubbing circles on her back suddenly freezes. I honestly don’t know why I didn’t tell her, other than the fact that I didn’t want her to see my true feelings for her at that time. She couldn’t know that I’d loved her since day one. I couldn’t give into temptation with my best friend’s little sister, it was wrong. Plus, she hadn’t loved me the same way I loved her. She’d loved me like a brother, and I loved her in the worst forbidden way. I, for so long, hid my feelings from her. When sometimes a crack in the shield would show, I quickly hid behind the denial that I tried so terribly to portray.

“I didn’t want you thinking of me any differently.” It’s a lame excuse, but it’s true. I didn’t want the idea of a heroic action to somehow change her perception towards me. Sometimes people fall for the hero simply because they’ve done something great. However, I’m no hero. I can be dark, brutal, barbaric, obsessive, protective—everything that makes up a villain. I wanted her to fall in love with me for who I truly am, and I’m no hero. I don’t know how to explain myself in a way that makes sense, so I say what I’ve always known to be true: “I love you, Sage Wilder. I always have and always will.” Her eyes fill with unshed tears, and before they can fall, I tip her chin towards me and kiss her with so much assurance, so much honesty, that there is no doubting my love for this woman.

SAGE

The next few days are filled with absolutely nothing but rest and recovery for both Saint and me. We end up having a home health nurse come by and show us how we need to remove, clean, and redress our wounds. Luckily, neither of us sustained any infections from our quick departures from the hospital and other activities. Surprisingly, we are both healing quite well. The nurse only has to come to the house twice before we both feel comfortable enough to do it ourselves. Saxon is against it at first, saying we are both so incredibly stubborn, and we should have the nurse come by some more before writing her off, but like he said, we are stubborn. No more stubborn than him, might I add.

Dante comes by a few days after the incident to inform us of the reports about the mayor being murdered.

“It’s being reported that Mayor Harrison was involved in a secret organization that went haywire, leaving him and his head of security murdered in his home. Gloria was ‘out of town’ during the act and was left unharmed. She has been playing the grieving widow role quite well.” Dante smiles.

The living room where Saint, Saxon, and I sit with Dante falls quiet for a brief moment before Dante asks the question he is clearly dying to ask.

“Is he taken care of?” Meaning, was Frankie now dead and disposed of?

“He’s taken care of. No worries there,” Saxon answers, looking at Saint with a devilish grin. I don’t know what they did to him, and honestly, I don’t want to know. All I’m aware of is that he’s gone and never coming back. That’s good enough for me. I do, however, have a question that I’ve been racking my brain over.

“What was your connection to Damien Devonte? Your real connection?” I ask Dante, and a playful grin splays across his face as he looks at me and then at the guys.

“Well, I was investigating him due to his involvement with the Hellstorm club. As you all know, Frankie hired two men from their club to start the fire that killed your father. Mayor Harrison was known to be friendly with their president for some time. Damien Devonte was the man that was responsible for locating your home and passing on the information to the club. He was involved with their club for years and this task alone gained him the title of an official member of their club, an initiation, if you will,until his untimely demise.” He smirks at the guys for a moment, making me think he knows it was them that killed him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Saxon answers with an equally mischievous smirk. I can’t hide my small smile as I cuddle into Saint’s side.

“Upon speaking with the Hellstorm’s president, he denied having any knowledge of the two members who started the fire. Although he denies the friendship he had with Mayor Harrison. He stands by his word of not being involved with Luther Wilder’s death.”

“Anyway, Damien’s death had me going over the case all the way from the beginning, and I soon found the trusts that your father created for you two.” I straighten up when he mentions the trusts. My father never once mentioned anything to me or Saxon about the trust funds he set up us.

“That’s another question I have no answer for. Your father had the trusts made, but only to be released when you each turn twenty-eight. I guess I’m just stumped as to why he chose twenty-eight instead of, let’s say, twenty-one or even eighteen.” Dante looks at Saxon, but it’s me who answers this question.

“My father’s favorite number. For many reasons, actually.” I take a deep breath. His love for symbolism was always something I loved about him. He wasn’t a superstitious man, per se, but he did believe in deeper meanings, especially signs that were placed before us. “In Chinese culture, the number twenty-eight is associated with easy prosper and good fortune. My father was also twenty-eight when he met and married our mother. She was twenty-six. She got pregnant when she was twenty-eight and birthed Saxon on October 28. Then I was born six years later, on August 28. Believe it or not, even Saint was born on April 28. See the pattern? The number twenty-eight is very important to my father because everything he loved most circled around that number.” I hadn’t noticed I was crying until I feel Saint’s thumb brush away a stray tear from my cheek.

“There’s no doubt our father chose that specific birthday for a reason.” Saxon says from beside me, nudging my shoulder and smiling down at me. I hadn’t seen Saxon smile so genuinely in so long, it inflates my heart with so much love and contentment that I know at this moment, we will all be okay.

FIVE WEEKS LATER

SAINT

“Say it again,” Saint whispers in my ear, giving me shivers down my spine.

“I love you, Saint. So, so much.” I kiss his nose first before he captures my lips with his, kissing me like I’m his last breath on this earth. Our wounds have almost fully healed. All that’s left is the slightly pink hue of freshly regenerated skin where our bandages once sat. They still hurt at times, especially after showers, rubbing a towel over them or even rubbing my clothes too roughly against it. Even now, as I press my body against Saint’s, never fully feeling like I’m close enough to him. I always need more, more of him on me, around me, inside me. He’s the best kind of addiction that I never want to be free of.

Tyler Saint Bones slipped into our lives years ago, forever a constant presence in our world from that moment on. From a protective teenager when I first started dating to an even more protective man who’s always been in the shadows of my life. He’s looked out for me, guarded me, stood up for me—hell, he’s even beaten other men for me when they’ve done me wrong. He’s always been the guardian of my heart. Whenever he saw me hurting, he would destroy the cause of my pain. Whenever he felt someone did me wrong, he would teach them a lesson. Whenever I was being too critical of myself or my scars, he would know exactly what to say to make the constant inner dialogue I’d create disappear into thin air.

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