Page 81 of Ashes of Saints

“If you come as my guest, you’re my responsibility,” I say firmly.

“But not exclusively.” Aurora turns and walks across the room, glancing over her shoulder while my heart thunders in my chest.

She still has tears in her eyes, and I need to go to her.

“You are right, Parker. We all have baggage, but I have a lot. I can admit that.” Aurora lets out a sigh as she glances around. “My mom just died, I’m grieving and working out who I am in life. It’s not a good time to get involved seriously with anyone, so perhaps just fucking is a good time filler.”

Time filler.

Did she just call me a fucking time filler?

I grab my jacket and walk to where she stands, forcing myself not to grip the back of her neck and tell her I’m no one’s fucking time filler and no man is touching her.

I don’t.

“So, we are on the same page,” I say instead.

“Same page. No more sex toys. No more caveman behavior. Agreed?” Aurora tilts her head.

Motherfucker.

I’ve cornered myself and can’t get out of it.

“Agreed.” I lie.

She tiptoes up, kisses my lips softly, and pats my chest before dropping to the pads of her feet. “See you tonight.”

God fucking damn.

CHAPTER TWENTY

PARKER

Tossing the photos from Mary-Anne’s shoebox onto my bed, I rub my jaw.

“Fuck.”

I’ve stared at them for hours, rage and nausea rolling through me. I don’t know whether to punch a wall or vomit.

The majority of the photos were taken in that room. I immediately recalled the brown wood-paneled walls, the bar in the corner, the bronze sofa and armchairs. Aurora was right, her mother wasn’t wealthy back then. All the furnishings looked well worn and used.

When my eyes had landed on the bottles along the shelf which I’d focused on many times while my body didn’t belong to me, I’d tensed so fucking hard my head throbbed.

The faces of the people, for some reason, don’t seem familiar. That’s either because I’ve blocked them out or these are different people.

Doesn’t matter.

They are all guilty.

I remember Mary-Anne, and seeing the photos of how I remembered her from all different angles had my body shaking with anger.

The funny thing is, I don’t see any similarities between her and Aurora. They are nothing alike. Not in body shape, coloring, or the way they hold themselves. That’s got to be odd for a mother and daughter.

Or maybe I just don’t want to see it.

I’m not an expert on these things. Perhaps she’s more like her father. Whoever he is.

On Monday, I’m going to get a friend of mine to run these photos through a face recognition system. Hopefully, we will find one or two of them. It will take their names to pop up in the criminal database, so if they are law-abiding citizens—aside from this depraved shit—then I won’t be successful.

---