Page 393 of Vicious Saint
A persistence that tore down my walls.
A charm that made it impossible to build them back up.
His darkness. His light.
Every broken piece of him that mirrored my own.
I may not have foreseen the explosion between us, but my heart burns for Saint in a way that screams it would die without him.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
I want all of it. Now. Forever. Through Heaven or the worse circle of Hell.
Confusion lines Saint’s brows as I twist myself to straddle him, which, thanks to hundreds of stitches, lands me in an awkward scissored position.
“What are you doing? Trying to rip your stitches?”
“I’ve been through worse.”
As much as Saint doesn’t like the idea, he slips his good arm around the small of my back, nudging me closer until our chests brush together.
I take in the bruises lining Saint’s face, not realizing I’m smiling until he says, “See somethin’ you like, Jimi?”
“Nope. You’re damaged goods.”
“You wound me, woman.”
Saint’s about to say something else, but I interject with my lips pressing against his. It leaves him startled at first, but he recovers quickly to deepen the kiss. So deep I can feel the sting from my cut as it rips apart.
“What was that for?” Saint asks, pulling away.
“Just a friendly reminder to buckle up. Because you, Letterman, are stuck with me for life.”
“For life, huh? And where will this life together be taking place?”
“In our little dark, morbid, and emotionally dependent world.”
This makes him chuckle. “Besides dark, morbid, and emotionally dependent, what else should I be expecting?”
“Food. Sarcasm. A mess. Sex.Lots and lots of sex.”
“Can’t forget the drawing.”
“Andfootballing.”
“What’s for lunch?”
“Breakfast, duh.”
“Who’s in charge of the remote?”
“Me unless it’s football season. Then I’ll be nice.”
“Is the word nice even in your vocabulary?”
“Nope…but you can let me borrow yours.”
Saint’s hand finds my hair, brushing the messy strands away from my forehead. “Under one condition, Jimi.”
