Page 11 of No Saint

He scoffs, “Is that right,leonessa?”

He’d called me that a few times now, though I didn’t know what it meant.

“Please,” I beg, “Please just bring me my son.”

He watches me curiously, eyes moving from my face to my wrists and then back again. He says nothing as he spins and exits, slamming the door behind him.

Tears sting my eyes as silence settles around me. My heart thumps wildly inside my chest, blood roaring in my ears. The first of the tears fall, running down my temples and into my hairline and now the adrenaline is wearing off, I feel the pain in my body, the sting of the cuts at my wrists and the throb in my head from where he hit me.

My thoughts are filled with Lincoln. What if I never see him again?

What if they kill me and he forgets about me? Would they tell him about me? About the mother who tried her best but wasn’t quite good enough. About the woman who tried,triedto keep him protected from her past and this way of life.

I wanted to shield him from it but perhaps that was hopeless. I supposed being a Saint wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. He would be looked after. He’d have a bed and warmth and wouldn’t question where his next meal would come from or if someone from my past would come along and rip him away.

Though it still hurt to know he would be raised without me. That I wouldn’t see him grow up.

I turn my head quickly when the door opens so they don’t see my tears.

Whoever it is pauses there but I keep myself turned away from them, willing myself to stop the tears, stop the pain.

Without a word they cross the space between us, hovering at the edge of the bed before leaning down and untying the rope at my wrist. My head snaps around to find a man next to the bed. He was young but held a wealth of knowledge in those grey eyes of his.

“These look sore,” he says to me, eyes bouncing to mine before they track the tears down my face.

“Who are you?”

“Devon Cross,” he answers.

“You work for him.” I accuse.

“I do.”

He opens a case at the side of the bed, holding my wrist steady as he brings out supplies. I snatch my hand away from him, ready to hit him as hard as I can in an attempt to escape, but he holds it tight, painfully, fingers digging into that raw skin around my wrist. He glares at me, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I may be a doctor, Miss Doyle but these hands have taken as many lives as they have saved. Do not push me.”

I freeze, wincing when he flexes his fingers, pushing into my bruised and broken skin.

“I want to see my son.” I demand.

He smirks.

“Do you hear me, asshole!?”

“You’re quite rude considering I’m the only one here trained to take away your pain.”

I scoff, “I don’t want your help.”

“Well, you’re getting it regardless.”

He holds me tight while he finishes getting out what he needs and then he places his bag down and sits on the bed, bringing my arm in front of him and in a position so I can’t see what he is doing.

I chew the inside of my cheek to stop myself from running my mouth and then hiss through my teeth when he puts something cold and wet against my skin that feels as if he’s just placed an open flame there.

He continues as if I didn’t make a noise at all, rubbing whatever it is into the wound around my wrist. He isn’t gentle either.

I grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut. He finishes that and I feel him begin to wrap cloth around my wrist that I soon realize is a white bandage, hiding the wounds underneath it.

“I would try and keep still and not fight,” the doctor continues.

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