Page 50 of Sinners & Saints (Sinners & Saints)

I stiffen at his unease. “What are you talking about?”

I look over at Chris, but he’s out of view, presumably having gone into a back room.

“I’m talking about answers, Frey. You want to know what Hale was looking into? Well, the Saints are part of it. I’m sure you figured that out, though.”

Because he’d lied about Hale’s drawing meaning nothing to him. It was a clue. But why would my brother be interested in what seems to be a criminal outfit?

“Look—” Daze shoves both empty glasses across the counter, but he’s even stiffer now. Anticipation radiates from him in steady, unsettling waves. He’s waiting for something, but the caution doesn’t seem directed at Chris.

Perhaps at this unspoken figure who supposedly will be lured out by our mere presence.

“This could take a while. In the meantime, ask me what you want. I’ll do my best to answer it. First, play along. Lean in but don’t make it obvious.”

He taps his throat with a finger in a silent command. Nervously, I lean forward and press my lips right by his pulse point. In the back of my mind, I understand his reasoning—to anyone watching, it must look like a playful kiss—not a stomach-churning moment before I finally get the answers I’ve been craving.

Impatient, I start with what should be a simple mystery for him to solve, “How did you know Hale?” I murmur against his skin. In spite of everything, his taste worms onto my tongue—musk and sweat. It isn’t revolting, though, and I don’t clamp my lips in disgust. My tongue dampens instead. Good Lord, no one on earth should taste so good.

“He came looking for me,” he mutters back. “I don’t know how he found my name, but he offered me cash to help him out.”

My eyes widen. “Help him with what?”

“A little mystery he wanted to solve,” he says cryptically. “He needed my expertise to navigate a rougher part of town compared to where your fancy church is. In the end, I think he found way more than he bargained for.”

It’s an ominous statement, but it’s also too vague—like there’s more he hasn’t said. “What aren’t you telling me?”

With a sigh, he shifts to face me and fingers part of my wig, playing with the synthetic strands. Finally, he inclines his head. “What do you know about what he might have been into, your brother?”

“Drugs,” I say softly. “It all spiraled out of control maybe six months ago. Father disowned him and kicked him out of the house.”

His eyes narrow. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. “Drugs.That’s what he told you, anyway.”

“Hale wouldn’t talk to me,” I insist. “What else could he have—”

“Time’s up.” He cocks his head, his eyes steel.

I frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Then I hear it. A hush falls through the boisterous crowd, heralding the arrival of a man with wild dark-brown hair and cold brown eyes. I can make out the color from across the room—they’rethatvibrant. Piercing. He homes the brunt of his gaze in our direction, and it seems as though the crowd melts away until he and Daze have nothing but space between them.

“Keaton,” the man says by way of greeting. He’s tall, about the same height as Daze. He wears a leather jacket paired with dark jeans and a black shirt, but the outfit merely enhances the danger wafting from him. “You have some damn nerve showing up here,” he bellows, his voice easily reaching throughout the room.

“Hello to you too, Silas,” Daze calls back. He’s still hunched over the bar, both of his hands in fists. White knuckles betray just how tightly he has them clenched. I don’t know whether to stay or retreat the way everyone else has. I must make a move to stand because Daze looks my way and shakes his head once.Stay.Spinning on his stool, he faces Silas directly. “I thought I might be able to make amends.”

“After all that high and mighty bullshit you spewed, you still come crawling back on your hands and knees.” Silas’ voice is soft but no less threatening than my father’s when he’s in the midst of a powerful sermon. Every word rings with unmistakable influence. Power. “You’ve always been a jackass, Day, but desperate? That’s not like you.”

With visible swagger, he approaches the counter from the far end, his arms crossed. The closer he comes, the easier it is to make out the planes of his face, in addition to his eyes. He’s older than Daze, I’d guess, maybe mid-thirties. A fresh bruise overlaps a jagged scar that cuts across his right cheek, distorting features that would otherwise be attractive. Now, a corner of his mouth is crooked, as though he’s permanently smirking.

“How much do you need this time? Or are you on another bender, and you’re too damn high to know when you’re treading into dangerous territory?”

“Maybe both,” Daze replies, his cocky nature on full display. “Enough to sweeten the memory of sending my fist through your skull the other night.” Unfurling to his full height, he stands. “Allow me to make amends. I know for a fact you don’t have an excess of fighters. Let me in one round tonight, and my girl will watch. We can call it a truce of sorts. No reason for violence.”

“A truce?” Silas cocks his head, his gaze cold. “Oh, no, Day. Traitors aren’t entitled to mercy. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve turned your back on the brotherhood entirely. You want to ‘make amends.’ Start by leaving town like you swore you would.”

“I will, but after one last fight. Name your terms,” Daze says, unconcerned by the refusal. “Any stakes you want. One final fight to end things properly. No mess. No grudges.”

“Any stakes,” Silas murmurs, rubbing his chin. He’s drawing out every second on purpose, toying with time. Finally, he shrugs. “Since you were so hellbent on leaving, I want you gone by morning. I want you to stay the hell away from this city—you forfeiteverything. Though let’s be honest, you gave it up months ago. Isn’t that right?”

“Andthat’sall you want?” Daze scoffs. “I thought you’d be greedier than that, Silas. Here I am on my hands and knees, and all you want is to kick me while I’m down. I was sure you’d go for the jugular instead.”

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