Page 37 of Gilded Saint

“Can’t say that I have. But I’m new to London. I mean, I’ve been here before as a tourist, but I’m a new resident.”

“Well, why didn’t you say? I’ll have to show you about. I’ve lived here my whole life. Resident expert at your service.”

There’s a man standing outside the lobby entrance, and I zero in on the shadowy figure as we approach. He’s tall, with short, dark hair, a blazer over a white Oxford, and weathered tan boots. It’s the heeled boots that kick my heart into pitter patter overdrive. It’s Leo. He’s back.

Chapter14

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

The young guy walking up the path with Willow looks like a fucking kid. An enamored, gooey-eyed kid who aims to win her over. His shoulder-length hair and paint-splattered clothes tell me he’s nothing like me, but I knew plenty of girls back in the day who fawned over artsy types.

I stretch my fingers, alleviating the tension tightening my spine and shoulders. She’s not mine. She’s far too young for me. I’m not even who she thinks I am. Yet the caveman deep within roars to bludgeon the horny adolescent.

I wasn’t always like this. There was a time I didn’t have a need to resort to violence when angry. But years of watching men die for lesser crimes, orchestrating the delivery of guns to monsters who kill and thrive, it’s all changed me. And I can’t say I like who I’ve become. All this anger. The vitriol twirling about inside makes throwing a fist or pulling a trigger far too welcome.

When you kill and you feel nothing, you’ve lost your soul.

Those words from a friend come to mind, and oddly enough, they deliver peace. I still feel. I recognize what I’m becoming, and I don’t like it. I haven’t given up. Not yet.

Willow laughs at something the long-haired pansy says. I bet the jackoff plays the guitar. He looks like that kind of guy. A total fuckwad.

The mass of wavy blonde hair bounces with her steps. Military-style boots peek out from her long white skirt. She’s wearing a thick cardigan that falls below her hips, but it’s undone, and beneath it she’s wearing a white tank top with scalloped edges that leads the eye straight to her perfect, youthful, pillowy breasts.

In truth, the two of them look like a picture-perfect couple. And a better man would step into the shadows and let nature take its course.

The second she spots me, awareness sparks. Those bright blue eyes widen and her steps falter. Her rose-pink lips spread into a timid smile, but lover boy doesn’t notice as he simply slows his pace, his attention solely on my wife. My gaze drops to her ringless fingers, where she’s fiddling with the edge of her sweater.

My teeth grind, and the chilly day permeates my clothes. Seeing her with another man shouldn’t piss me off. There’s nothing real between us. I helped her out because she was in a hard place. She’s way too young for there to be anything between us, even a fleeting thing.

I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks. But I have ensured her safety. Expanded security. Hired a goddamn chef. Watched each night to ensure she was safe inside before going to bed.

“Leo.” She says the name with an air of awe.

It’s not my name, and I’m not her husband, and we’re not real.

But unfortunately for this punk, I’ve got a role to play, and in that role, a syndicate leader wouldn’t be at all okay with his wife—even if it’s arranged as fuck—messing around.

“Wife,” I answer. I must be sporting a killer glare, because lover boy stumbles, nearly crashing to his knees.

“Oh…um…” He glances between us, speechless and totally out of his fucking league.

“Leo, this is Geoff. Geoff, this is my…” Those big blues question, as if uncertain. What the fuck is she uncertain of?

“Husband,” I answer for her.

She swallows, blinks, and places a hand on the motherfucker’s arm. My blood pressure might go through the roof.

“Geoff and I work near each other. He was out and about and was walking me home. He paints landscapes.”

He’ll find that very difficult without hands.

The thought comes unbidden, and I close my eyes. Jesus, the monster within is running rampant.

“Oh, well, you’re home now, love.” He flinches at his word choice, as he should. He holds up a white paper bag. “I’m gonna head on back now. Have lunch before I get back to it. Lovely to meet you both.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, then place a palm on Willow’s ass and pull her against me, crushing my lips down over hers.

She tenses. Her lips are soft and unresponsive. I pin her to me so the fuckwad can’t see whatever shock is playing against her features. When I lift my head, I avoid her eyes and watch the fuckwad retreat.

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