Page 79 of Penny for Your Saints

"Easy, Frank," Seb attempts to gentle Frank away from the edge of his hysteria, but Frank will have none of it.

"So that's it then!? All of this—.All of this work, all of our digging. To find outthis." He sweeps his hand, lightning fast across the corner of the table, slapping his metal camping cup against the wall with a loud clatter.

"Fucking monsters use their own damn kid to play God—and what? We're supposed to believe that we just magically are alsofated mates with Quentin and Louise!?" he barks, completely out of control.

"It's not magic, Frank," Seb interjects coolly, doing his best to de-escalate the situation.

“Once we get in touch with the scientists Louise's parents have mentioned, we'll have them confirm what we already know—not just from the tests, but from the sensation of our growing bonds post-heat. We are fated mates. The proof is definitive."

As a response, Frank bends down and lets out a scream until he has run out of breath, his eyes flat and expressionless. Usually, this kind of thing would have frightened me, but right now he just seems like a child throwing a tantrum. Seb and I stare back at him, bewildered but otherwise unphased by his outburst.

Whether he's unable or unwilling to deal with Frank's temper, Quentin wrestles himself free from Seb and I's arms and disappears out the front door after Louise into the cold winter's night.

Fated mates.

Such an idea seemed only a fairy tale a few weeks ago. But now…

The videos from mom and dad’s laptop were hard to swallow. Even though I watched the videos right alongside everyone else, it was hard not to be transported back into the haze of memory.

I don't remember exactly when I made them stop the videos, but I simply couldn't take it anymore. I burst out of the cottage and out onto the rocky shore.

As if I could go anywhere.

Standing on the beach, looking out over the dark waves, it feels as if the little salty whitecaps are laughing at me. A stupid girl, trapped here on this tiny spit of land with four men who have been both my curse and my deliverance.

Quentin joins me, bringing his own tears, his own pain. Silently. The two of us join hands looking out over the cruel surf together, a starless clouded sky overhead.

“How long have you known?” I ask, unable to look him in the face.

“Seb found the indicators for fated mates when he and Caz went to the university to run tests. As you can imagine, Frank completely dismissed it—and the rest of us were somewhat skeptical, to say the least. Of course, this was before the heat,” he admits softly.

“Why do you think Frank flipped his lid? It's not like he's any different from the rest of us,” I fume.

“Well, that's not entirely true,” Quentin sighs, pulling me against him—his fingers unlacing from mine to drape over my shoulders as he holds me, safe under his wing.

“The whole reason Frank started the Saints is because he lost his fated mate, setting him on a path hellbent for revenge.”

I allow the words to wash over me. If Frank and I, along with the rest of the Saints, are fated mates; then this means that a fated mate of Frank’s was a fated mate of mine of Quentin’s, too.

It’s only now that I see the dull ache in Quentin’s peridot green eyes; already having come to the same realization.

“Frank and his fated mate were working together in the field when it happened. I've never been able to get the entire story out of him, but there was an accident. A bad one.”

“What kind of accident?” I ask, not sure I really want to hear the answer.

“He was working for the DEA at the time. There was some kind of large drug bust planned in conjunction with the ATF. I’m sorry I don’t have any more details. I was working undercover at the time. I didn't even hear the slightest rumblings of what was really going on. All Frank told me was that the operation was bad. The Feds thought they had set up an ideal sting—the kind of bust that would make everybody look good for years to come. The sort of thing that would make careers. Instead, an internal resource tipped the cartels off, and it was an absolute bloodbath. Frank was lucky to get out alive.”

Quentin squeezes my hand tightly, barreling right through the rest of his sad tale.

“Of course it wouldn't have done to have the Feds take responsibility for the loss of so much life and—heaven forbid—the waste of so many tax dollars. As a result, everything was swept under the rug and reframed as a ‘transit accident.’” A plane that went down. Resources that were lost. Even though Frank hadn't been the one to botch it, he had to go down with the ship.

Compton, Lowry, Stoddard, Hell—possibly even Uncle Martin would have known about Frank—quietly struck from the record.

“As you can imagine, Frank had no intention of going quietly.” Quentin lets out a sound between a laugh and a sigh.

I let out a little whistle through the space in my front teeth and shake my head. “Of course! I'm here, aren't I?”

Quentin nods. “Right you are.”

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