Page 71 of Penny for Your Saints

“I can’t speak for the others,” Caz begins unsteadily. “But, I have no idea who the hell the ‘Red Bishop’ is—I heard the code name for the first time when you did, Lou,” he admits sheepishly. “I just played along because I figured that we’d be fucking shit up for Frank if we let on that we had no idea what the hell that FBI lady was talking about.” Caz’s eyes flit to me ina panic as he appears to remember I’m still sitting right here—but his confession has already slipped his lips. There’s no taking it back now.

Before I can admonish him, Seb is quick to join in.

“I have no fucking clue who this évêque rouge is either. I too was attempting to save face,” Seb admits flatly.

All three turn their eyes expectantly to Quentin instead of me, eager for his response.

“I don’t know why you’re all gawking at me,” Quentin shrugs. “I too deferred to Frank’s judgment, while I do know that this ‘Red Bishop’ is Frank’s old protégé and Louise’s former partner, Dennis McBride.”

I knew this moment was coming, though admittedly, the reason why I’d withheld attaching Dennis’ name to the code moniker was because I was hoping to avoid additional complication. Safe to say that after the revelation that Louise, The Saints, and I are fated mates—she had previously thought Dennis might be; that I had thought it possible he might be too—but after Michael…

“What!? Dennis is the Red Bishop!?” Louise balks. “You didn’t think to mention any of this the other night?” she snipes accusingly.

“He doesn’t know he’s the Red Bishop,” I bite out, my own heart hammering wildly in my chest. “That’s just what Lowry and the other higher-ups called him.”

“So do you know who the fucking White Knight is!?” she spits, shooting up from her seat.

“No,” I shake my head, a splitting pain spreading through my brow as my heart rate climbs and climbs.

She turns her venomous gaze to the other Saints, who all plead their innocence in overlapping voices.

Louise lets out an anguished cry and momentarily covers her eyes with the palms of her hands before she lunges forward—hands flying in a flurry through the air.

“What the fuck does Dennis have to do with any of this?” Louise presses, slamming both of her open hands down on the table, her patience run out.

“He was your partner, and even by Tennant’s word—he seems to be the only one in the bureau who didn’t turn on you after the Feds proclaimed you a collaborator of your parents and The Saints—dead or alive,” I do my best to explain before the situation spins out of control.

“So!?” Louise shouts.

“And he’s the only one we have who’s still on the inside.” I drive the point of my index finger down onto the surface of the wood table and draw a circle around the imaginary spot. “Even if Lowry had wanted to help you, to feed you information to reach her own ultimate goals of pleasing the department of reproduction—she can’t. She’s just a civilian now. A civilian with connections, sure—but nothing like Agent Dennis McBride—Compton’s new pick for successor now that you’re supposedly deceased,” I snap.

“And you didn’t think this was important to mention while you were waxing poetic about fated mates?” Louise shrills—her cinnamon eyes aflame with her rage.

I feel every pair of eyes in the room fall on me, the room slowly listing sideways as my blood pressure skyrockets.

“You two talked about fated mates?” Seb asks, his attempt at being inconspicuous, glaringly obvious—to me and the boys at the very least.

“Yeah, he asked me if I believed and I told him ‘I don’t know’—because I fucking don’t know if it’s a fairy tale or bullshit or just the kind of rare slice of heaven not meant for a goddamn mess of a failure like myself—” Louise rattles on, her handscurling into fists on the table, her eyes threatening to spill over with tears.

The others shift uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging worried glances.

“Neither of us seemed to have a definitive answer—but both of us mentioned heats with Dennis and…” she trails off, realizing that she has nearly made the admission about the other Saints.

I do my best to sit in challenge, but already my stomach has begun to swim with dizzy nausea—my vision begins to darken at the edges.

As if reading my expression and doubling down on her confession to throw down the gauntlet, Louise pushes on.

“And—in the bath with Caz at the safehouse; with all of you during this heat.” Her jaw juts out as she grits her teeth, the words hanging in the air—unable to be taken back.

The other Saints look at me—the condemnation plain on their faces—but I give the most imperceptible shakes of my head.

No. We do not tell her. Not yet. Yes, she guesses—but no, we can’t tell her.

I see Seb’s lips move in a small, silent, ‘putain’and know that at least he is still obedient. Caz, too, directs those icy blues down to the floor to escape the scrutiny of my gaze. Last, Quentin remains—a sliver of defiance reflected in those peridot green eyes, but ultimately, he relents. Deferring once again to me—our not-quite-pack’s alpha.

Only Louise remains—the denunciatory fire of her gaze pinning me to my seat, and all I want to do is to wake from this nightmare; or to jump from my seat and cover her face in kisses; to tell her all the horrible secrets I keep—of the monster that sleeps deep inside me, threatening to awaken and seize control at any moment…

No. I can’t do this, not again.

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