Page 54 of Nemesis

But has Saint healed any in the year since he lost the love of his life?

I think of his fingers digging into my skin. The insults he slung at me like mud while he fucked me. The way he dragged an orgasm from me even though that made me feel dirtier than anything else he could’ve done.

Do I think Saint is moving on? Thinking more about living than dying?

Absolutely not.

When I don’t answer, Jace sighs.

“I can’t babysit him forever.” I push myself up, dusting off the bits of rock and dirt that stick to my pants. “It’s not fair to me. Or him.”

He nods, but his expression tells me he doesn’t agree.

I motion for him to go away. “Water your plant wall and leave me be.”

I came here to be alone.

And yet, no sooner has he returned to Olympus does a motorcycle turn onto the long driveway.

I recognize Saint immediately, and my hackles rise.

By the time he reaches me, I’m ready for a fight.

He’s pissed, too. He takes one look at me, at the sweatshirt that drowns my frame, and he doesn’t just stop at me. He grabs me. One hand on my throat, the other on my hip, and propels us over the cliff.

I can’t say I’m even surprised. The freefall isn’t unpleasant. It’s like my mind detaches and lengthens the time it takes us to hit the water. I note that I’m still wearing my boots—that’s the worst—and Kade’s sweatshirt. It won’t smell like him anymore.

But wasn’t it just the other day that I did this with him? On my birthday. At sunrise.

It feels like an eon ago.

Saint falls faster than me. He’s heavier by quite a bit, although he doesn’t release me. I cling to his wrist, clawing my nails into his skin. I take a breath and keep my eyes on him until the very last second.

We hit the water hard, plunging down, and catch a wave at the wrong time. It sends us toward the rocks, our bodies twisting. It’s no match for the speed at which we descend, though.

Neither of us let go.

My feet hit the bottom, and my old habit of lingering almost sticks. But Saint still has me in his grip, his one hand around my throat—so loose, though, it barely feels like anything other than pure possession—and the other fisted in the fabric at my hip.

He drags me upward.

A wave crests over our heads, and we pop up a second later.

He yanks me into him, until I grasp at his shoulders. We both kick to keep ourselves afloat. My knee grazes his groin, and his eyes narrow.

“You aren’t allowed to disappear on me,” he says harshly.

“Careful, Saint, or else I might start to think you care.”

He shakes his head, and his fingers tighten on my throat.

Maybe he’s considering throttling me.

His white t-shirt is soaked, plastered to his skin and nearly translucent. The branded hourglass in the center of his chest is still a little raised, and I put my palm against it.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

His heart beats wildly under my hand.

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