Page 3 of Martyr
Right now, the sky is full of clouds that seem lower than usual. Someone mentioned it will snow every day this week.
The ocean is calm, though. Calm and dark, rolling softly under the dock.
“What do you want?” he spits.
My heart does that weird thing. Clenching tight, trying to cover over the hole he keeps tearing open.
I force a sigh and keep my expression passive. “To keep you alive, asshole. Hard to do when you can’t even remember your coat before your winter hike.”
He sneers. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Because you’re numb on the inside and want to be numb on the outside, too?” I step forward. “You’ll lose a finger. And then, when your memories come back and you remember what you did with Starlight, you’ll realize what a giant fucking idiot you are. Risking your hands for—for—this.” I motion, as if to encompass all of him.
“Starlight,” he says carefully. “I kept it?”
Of course he kept it. Did he think he got rid of it? Does he have such little faith in himself? Unless he’s considering quitting tattooingnow. This is round two of losing Nyx, after all, and it was so much more abrupt. He woke up in the hospital and forgot that the love of his life was dead. He was lying in that bed expecting her to walk through the door, and reality bitch-smacked him. Now he’s trapped on an island withme.
Maybe he doesn’t want to do anything.
My brother and his two best friends pulled Saint out of the hole last time. They did a lot more for him than I ever could. I just took over and kept him alive by watching him.
Watched pots don’t boil—and my job was to make sure Saint didn’t boil over.
But it hurts, like a vicious stab wound, to think he would consider never putting his art on another body.
“You made it famous.” I risk another step. He’s in the middle of the dock, not in danger of suddenly pitching himself into the water. “Your face has been on magazines. Rich people travel to your shop.”
“Right.”
“What, you don’t think you could do it?” My tone has turned sharp, goading. Begging him to admit that he thinks he’s a failure.
Which for Saint is something he was never able to admit. Not in the beginning, at least.
The memory of him telling me he was attracted to me from the start, thatIwas his temptation, floats unbidden to the front of my mind. I bat it aside and focus on his scowl.
He shakes his head and turns away.
“Saint.”
He doesn’t reply. From the stiffness in his shoulders, to the tensed cords of muscles in his arms, his stance… he doesn’t want a fight. He’s bracing for impact.
At least before, I got his anger in my face.
“Saint,” I repeat.
It isn’t until I get close and grab his arm that he moves. He faces me, and his expression morphs into something awful. Angry, yes, but also horrified. Ashamed. Disgusted. I see it all bursting there, one after another, like fireworks. Eachpopof emotion burns into my retinas.
If I didn’t know him half as well as I do, I wouldn’t be able to tell. I don’t think I’d be able to read Saint Hart at all.
But I do know him, in all the intimate, impossible ways he can’t remember. The slide of his palms over my breasts. His mouth at my neck. His cock inside me.
He grips my arms, and I don’t even flinch, because he’s finally fucking touching me.
Until he shoves me.
Shoves me.
I should’ve seen it coming. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. The problem is, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have imagined Saint ever laying his hands on me. It’s not with malice. It’s everything else twisting him up on the inside.
