Page 358 of Vicious Saint
A pathetic attempt, because all I can picture is the monster version of me, with blacked out eyes and a venomous grin similar to Saint’s monster from my nightmares.
You were born sick just like Saint.
Vicious’ words haunt me.
Making me wonder if somehow my subconscious knew more than it led on. If it lied to me, too, just like my mom.
A sob bursts out of me, too loud for me to stifle it, making Saint jump out of the dead of sleep.
Unlike most people who take a few seconds to return to full consciousness, Saint’s already alert, searching for me on the bed, then around the room when he realizes my side is empty. He calls me by name, which makes my attempt to stop crying impossible.
“She knew…” I choke, stepping out of the shadows. “This whole fucking time…she knew everything.”
The second Saint’s feet hit the floor, he’s gunning over to me, not bothering to cover himself up.
“Who knew what? What are you talking about?” He cups my face to wipe the tears away.
“My mother…she knew it was me that the Ivanovs wanted dead.”
There’s a million different reactions I expect Saint to have with the long-time-coming revelation, not one of them involving his hands freezing.
His jaw clenching.
His eyes turning to glitter in the moonlight.
Everything about Saint’s beauty that grounds me, jolts me at this moment.
“Saint?” I call out with a calm I don’t feel, waiting for his smile, his shushes, his strong arms to ground me, prove me wrong.
Anything that symbolizes reassurance or the anchor he’s become.
Saint looks away, and this time, when the merciless truth hits me, it’s with a shotgun bullet, blowing my chest wide open, guts at my feet.
“No…” I stumble back, shaking my head. “Not you too…”
My words may sound halfway convincing, but when Saint blinks away the moisture in his eyes, there’s no denying the guilt drowning them.
But I love andtrusthim too much not to try.
“Please…pleasetell me you didn’t know.”
When he says nothing, my plea turns into a desperate cry.
“Saint…I need you to tell me right now that you didn’t know who my father was!”
“Hendrix…I can’t.”
“No.” I shake my head vigorously this time. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m so fucking sorry.” Saint cups my face again. “I was gonna tell you, I swear. But shit hit the fan and I couldn’t.”
I tilt my head, unable to wrap my head around the idea that Saint, after all we’ve been through, would keep such essential information from me. “You really knew?”
“Yes…I did. But…”
Disbelief officially turns to outrage, outrage into guttural heartbreak.
“How!” I cry, ripping his hands from my face. “How could you keep this from me?!”
