Page 338 of Vicious Saint
“Looks like you’re almost all healed up,” Saint comments, rubbing a gentle thumb over the gash on my head. “Doubt you’ll even see the scar.”
“Mr. Creed’s surgeons don’t fuck around.”
Which worked out great for me, given they had to drill into my damn skull.
Saint agrees, but I can tell he isn’t the biggest fan of Leviathan’s dad. In fact, I don’t think I am either.
He was kind when he checked up on me in the hospital, asked all the right questions, seemed worried when he spoke to Vic, but there was definitely a creep factor hiding in his demeanor.
Same goes for Riggs’ dad—except the self-serving politician in him was easy to see through. Especially when dodging everyquestion Saint asked about his son. Even through my mental fog, something didn’t sit right with me.
Phone calls and visiting days are allowed in most rehabs.
No one’s heard from Riggs in months.
Yeah, the shit is obnoxious, even infuriating at times, but he’s still a decent guy. Along with being a critical part of The Royal Heathens. Not to mention Archer who’s been off tremendously since the night I found them alone in a staircase.
Something definitely isn’t right there…
If I’m being honest, the only head of the four royal families that makes sense being friends with Vic, is Cillian, Crayton’s dad.
He seemed like a genuine, good guy when I met him—and that’s saying a lot given his son is a literal psychopath.
Anyway…back to Hendrix and Saint’s regular scheduled fucked up programming.
Unlike my mom and Vic, Saint makes it a point not to create a spectacle of my injuries, keeping his comments on them one and done. Which is why when he begins washing me, I force myself to engage in light conversation.
About the weather.
His recent visit with Crayton that I forced him to go to with Bex.
Even about the Super Bowl.
It didn’t feel natural at first, given how much I’ve grown used to withdrawing, but the more my attention brightened Saint’s face, the easier the talking got.
This brings us to now, sitting in a comfortable silence. Me, with the side of my head resting on my knees, watching Saint rub a sponge absentmindedly along my back.
“I love you, Letterman, you know that right?”
For the first time in a long time, I can spot the cockiness in Saint’s grin. “I do…but feel free to keep reminding me.”
“I’m serious. I wouldn’t have gotten through any of this without you by my side. It means a lot, so thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he responds thoughtfully, until he scoffs, “But I bet you were singing a different tune when I shoved one of my protein bars down your throat.”
To my surprise, a small chuckle bubbles out of me.
“Yeah…I hated that.”
Saint smiles and shakes his head, but with a sadness I can tell he’s trying to hide.
“You okay?”
“Of course.”
“You sure? Because I’m here for you too if you aren’t.”
My attempt at reassurance falls flat along with the hand on my back. Then, I watch as Saint drifts off into thought for what feels like forever.
