Page 7 of Ashes of Saints

Why don’t I have grandparents? No aunts. No cousins.

Why did she homeschool me? Why wasn’t I allowed to play with other children?

There were no play dates. I didn’t connect with other children. I wasn’t encouraged in the arts, music, sports, or anything else. I was kept in our house. In my room.

And told to be a good girl.

No wonder I have no fucking career direction.

I had my paper, pens, and paints. So, I drew and painted.

“Well, you’re not going to be the next Monet, so that’s a shame,” she once said.

Bitch.

Despite my lack of socialization, Mom had friends over. I heard the music and voices, the laughter. It sounded like so much fun, and I craved the interaction. So, I’d sneak downstairs and take long minutes to slowly open the door without being caught.

What I saw...

Well, I don’t remember much. Much of it blanked from my mind. Getting caught always earned me bad punishment, once whisked away.

But I do remember the boy with dark hair and scared blue eyes wearing small shorts and...nothing else.

At least he wasn’t the day he caught me staring at him.

I smiled, hoping he’d invite me to play, even though he was older than me. To this day, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the absolute hate that greeted me. Those blue eyes turned almost black and, as a cold chill brushed over my skin, I had retreated and banged into the door.

Drawing attention to myself, I was yet again punished, but all I could focus on was the memory of those angry blue eyes.

Did children not like me?

Is that why I was kept at home?

Upon asking my mother, she said, “Perhaps if you behaved and didn’t do things I’ve asked you not to, other children would like you.”

I was confused.

Why did the boy get to hang out with the adults while I had to stay locked up in my room? No matter how good I was, I was never allowed to go to the parties.

Throwing a tantrum didn’t help, either.

Mom simply put a lock on my door and, while I didn’t know it at the time, I turned within and shut down emotionally.

Not completely. I have an amazing best friend and have dated a few men. But I know there’s crap I need to work out about myself. Mom’s death is either going to hinder or help me to do that. I don’t know which one yet and it’s very unsettling.

I tug a tissue from a well-placed box, even though my eyes are dry, and exit the funeral director’s office. When I get home, I’m go—Oomph.

I cry out in surprise as my palms flatten on a solid wall of muscle. Large hands grab my shoulders and steady me.

I glance up and—my god!—I almost stumble again at how gorgeous the man staring back at me is. A dark curly lock has fallen down onto his forehead and striking dark blue, almost navy, eyes glower as they narrow.

“Are you alright?” the man asks in a gruff tone.

I’m not going to lie; my ovaries start doing the tango. I’ve seen beautiful men like this in movies, in magazines, and on those Instagram model accounts. But never in person. He’s extremely polished but has a masculine roughness that immediately makes me feel feminine and like I should faint or something and hope he carries me back to his lair.

Tempted.

“Yes. I think.” I sniff and lift the tissue to my nose, hoping like god I don’t look as much of a mess as I suspect I do.

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