Page 34 of Nemesis

I holster my weapon and storm up to him, grabbing his hand. His fingers automatically thread through mine, and he allows me to pull him out of the house. Past the driveway, where Kade’s SUV nearly hides the very spot…

I keep us moving all the way to Saint’s fucking motorcycle. Of course he couldn’t drive a car. I climb on and scoot back, allowing space for him.

He wordlessly hands me his helmet and swings his leg over.

I slide the helmet on and buckle it, my fingers trembling. It takes me too long, and by the time I’m ready, the bike has roared to life under us. I glance at the house, where Kade stares at us with a dark expression.

“Go,” I urge Saint. “For God’s sake, just get us out of here.”

He grabs my wrists and drags me forward. I’ve got no resistance in the leather and slide down the seat easily, my chest colliding with his back. I dig my fingers into his abdomen, and I think I catch a faint groan.

There’s no time to analyze it, though—he hits the gas, and we shoot away from the house of horrors.

We end up at his tattoo shop, Starlight. He has his own parking spot in the back, out of sight, and he dismounts faster than me. He slips inside and leaves the door open for me.

I move slower, although I’m officially spooked.

When I enter, Saint’s got most of the lights on. The front is chic maximalism, dark walls covered in gold-framed prints, a white couch, a neon sign. Plants. Those were my contribution, since I spent many nights in the beginning waiting for him tobe done with clients. Afraid that he was going to do something stupid like leave Sterling Falls altogether, maybe, or stab himself in the eye with his tattoo machine.

“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the tattoo chair. The piece of furniture is a work of art all its own, nearly every part of it adjustable. Right now, it’s a chair without a headrest, and the leg portion is up. Meant for a recline, I guess.

He once mentioned how much it cost, and I felt sick inside.

Bow & Arrow isn’t cheap, by any means. And I certainly know how to support myself. But I don’t like to be frivolous.

It isn’t until I sit in it and lean back that I get it.

He sits on the stool to my left, rolling closer. He’s snapping on gloves and wheeling a tray with his tattoo machine closer.

“What are you doing?” The alarm in my voice gives me away.

He smiles.

Dark, tortured, broken Saint Hart…smiling. I haven’t seen the man smile since before the love of his life died in his arms.

His gaze runs over me again. “Hmm…”

“What. Are. You?—?”

He stands and comes around the front of me. He points to my jacket. “Off.”

“I’m not?—”

“You take it off or I cut it off.”

He’s freaking serious.

For the second time today, I roughly undo the buckles and zipper, shrugging out of it. He touches my blouse, hooking his finger along the collar and tugging.

“This, too.”

“Fuck off.”

He sneers. “You’ve evolved from ‘fuck you,’ I see.”

“Clearly a mistake,” I counter. “Worst sex of my life.”

“Yeah? So going another round solo in your bedroom wasn’t you trying to relive it?”

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