Page 353 of Vicious Saint
A fall that usually comes from those you least expected.
The Roman Empire, defeated by barbarians.
Mussolini by the very regime he created.
Goliath by David.
The ones who sacrificed power by the endless road to happiness…
“Well, fuck you too.” I whack the door to Saint’s empty mini fridge closed, too thirsty and groggy to remember he’s asleep until there’s stirring from the bed.
“Shit,” I hiss, frozen in place as Saint mutters something inaudible, throwing the blanket off his naked body.
Per Bex’s astonishment earlier, Saint got to my dorm room all the way from his less than two minutes after she called him.
I was mid hyperventilating, being crowded over by her and Archer who, against their best efforts, could not get me to calm down.
It wasn’t their fault, they’ve barely seen me since I left the hospital, and it’s not like my panic attacks were something any of us were used to during our friendship.
Saint, on the other hand, has been living alongside them ever since Carlo died, adding Google to the list of occupants in the room when I’d spiral. Which is why he was able to calm me enough to get us back to the mansion, where we spent the rest of the evening locked in his room, naked, flesh-to-flesh as I breathed him in.
Then eventually fell asleep against his chest.
Not so fun fact—post panic attack thirst is a lot like post sex thirst, but with none of the benefits.
Saint’s breaths are evened out by the time I throw my oversized Black Panther hoodie over my head, and are moving on to snores as I shimmy my underwear and leggings past my hips.
I check my cell to find it’s just past midnight, at least two hours later than my mom, auntie, and Vic usually fall asleep on a weekday. Which makes this the perfect time to get in and out of the kitchen without having to deal with questions about the state I was in when I came home.
The taste of cold water is all I can think about as I shove the phone in my pocket and creep toward the door, twisting it openinch by inch with a watchful eye on Saint. Then, when it’s wide enough for me to slip through, I do just that and click it shut behind me.
My eyes barely get the chance to adjust to the light before I start tiptoeing down the hall, stopping briefly in front of Theory’s room to see if she’s awake. I’ve got one ear on the door, ready to suggest a late night snacky chat if I hear any movement.
When I don’t, I shrug, kind of bummed, but keep it moving toward the spiral steps, taking them down slowly in an attempt to stay on the lookout.
From the fourth to the second floor, not a soul or a noise other than creaky floorboards can be heard, upgrading tiptoes into confident hops as I turn onto the staircase to the darkened foyer.
Halfway down, I’m all but whistling when the sound of hushed voices comes from the dimly lit living room. One of them belonging to a man with a thick, Italian accent. I root to the spot, breath held and eyes wide as I contemplate turning or snooping.
The decision gets made for me by approaching footsteps from the kitchen, so I practically jump down the last few steps and hide behind Saint Joseph.
The statue, obviously.
It’s not until the footsteps pass us that I dare to sneak a peek, finding Darla carrying a tray of drinks into the living room.
Her face is drawn, hands trembling in a way that tells me there’s sweat beading at the collar of her uniform.
What the shit?
For as long as I’ve known the Lavells’ housekeeper, never once has she ventured outside her usual collected disposition. Not even during Saint’s many…outbursts. Hell, mine neither. If Darla was there, she’d remain in the background, hands folded and waiting to be told how she can help.
Which is why seeing her this flustered flusters me too.
Because whoever this man is…he must be dangerous.
“How dare you try to do this now!” Mom whisper-shouts. “After everything she’s been through.”
“Try?” The man chuckles deep. “Oh, my sweet, sweetfiore. You should be lucky I even come here to give-ehyou the warning.”
