Page 135 of Vicious Saint
He rests on an elbow. “You have three options, Jimi. Bed, floor, couch.”
I should argue that every single one benefits him in some way, but the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet. So, I play my cards right long enough for Saint to assume my decision, then when he twists to shut the lamp, make my move and scoot closer.
Pushing him so hard he rolls off the bed.
A solid effort on my part, but somehow Saint’s always quicker.
Because in the blink of an eye he’s got a hand locked around my wrist, making me yelp as I tumble over the edge with him.
Saint hits the floor with a thud, and I go flying right over, the blow to my head cushioned by his outstretched forearm.
“What the hell?” I release a pained laugh.
Saint hovers over me. “Shit, Jimi, you okay?”
I take in the genuine concern lining his features. Bright blue eyes wide, lips parted, and breaths heavy.
“Yeah, all good.”
“You sure?” He examines my head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The tone in his voice is not only concerned, it’s riddled in guilt.
Which is the last thing he should be feeling for someone who pushed him off a bed.
I’m taken, not going to lie.
“You didn’t, it’s okay.”
“I—” He swallows. “I wouldn’t.”
Ignoring the fact he’s a complete dickwad, I have to remind myself that behind Saint’s charming, even brutal exterior, is a guy battling demons he rarely allows anyone to see.
And right nowthatguy deserves a little grace.
Especially since I’m the dickwad who pushed him first.
“Hey.” I press my hand against his cheek. “I know.”
Saint’s hair falls down his forehead as his gaze holds mine hostage. “Two percent…” he breathes, with a small smile tugging his lips.
“Two percent?”
“It’s how many people in the world are born with your shade of green eyes.”
“Pretty sure there’s a reason for that.”
Saint chuckles, almost in disbelief as he says, “Shit, Jimi. I’m pretty sureyou’rethe reason for that.”
17
Saint
It’s well past three A.M. and I’m still leaning against the headboard, bottle to my lips as another slug of whiskey burns its way down my throat. I’ve been drinking and staring at the ceiling for hours, the entire time fiery green eyes and plump lips stare back at me in challenge.
Always in fucking challenge.
The deeper Hendrix gets under my skin, the harder it is for me to shake her. Even more now as I have her all to myself, counting every twitch of her freckled nose and gentle snore.
