Page 15 of No Saint

“Your son, his cheeks are red but he’s a little pale,” he continues.

I glance at Lincoln, noticing what he says. With my free hand I reach across and press my palm to his cheek before using the back of my hand to feel his forehead. His skin was hot to touch. He was fine minutes ago.

“Yes, you can check him.” I place my newly bandaged hands in my lap, watching the doctor move around the bed to where Lincoln is. I stand, kicking the tray holding the now empty plates, an idea springing to mind. The door was ajar slightly, the hall behind it quiet.

With Devon’s back turned to me, I quickly bend and grab the empty plate that had my toast on it.

“Is he okay?” I ask, wandering around to where he stands hovering over my son.

“Might just be a light fever,” Devon says quietly before standing up right and turning. I don’t give him a chance to react. I swing the plate, smashing it around his head.

He goes down hard. I grab Lincoln, hauling him to me as I grab the scissors from inside the medical kit and sprint for the door. The hall is empty, but I don’t stick around, I run, holding Lincoln securely as my legs carry me down the stairs. I get lost somewhere on the bottom floor.

I hear the familiar sounds of a kitchen hard at work, of voices chattering animatedly so I avoid that and turn down another hall and come out into a large foyer, my feet squeaking on the polished marble floors. Ahead of me is a wall of glass, looking out into a round courtyard lined with various expensive looking cars and a lush green lawn. I almost want to stop when I see the view. Endless miles of sea, the sun beaming down to kiss the surface.

The door sits right ahead.

“Stop!” Comes a booming voice, not Gabriel’s I realize. I’d somehow, in the last twenty-four hours become accustomed to his deep baritone. It was the kind of voice you knew instantly, with a slight lilt of an accent, not born from moving here but from hearing it spoken often by those around him I assumed. I couldn’t name where it was from, it wasn’t a strong enough sound to determine the origin.

I don’t stop, my hand curls around the handle of the door and I yank it open, thankful it gives, but a body slams into the side of mine and my first thought is to protect Lincoln.

I curl myself around him as whoever it is manhandles me away from the door.

I fight with what I can, lifting the scissors I stole from Devon and ramming them forward. It slices through flesh, but I can’t see where I’ve hit.

They hiss in pain and let go.

I feel their blood on my hand, but I had no time to check anything. I go for the door.

“Amelia!”

That was Gabriel.

I’m stopped once more, and they hold me tight just as something hard presses into the side of my head. A gun.

“Don’t move.” They say.

I swallow, fear making my heart thump like a beast inside my chest.

“If you’re going to kill me,” I whisper, “Make sure someone catches my son.”

“Move,” they order, pushing the muzzle of the gun into my head hard to spur me on. I turn in time to see Gabriel storming down the stairs, a very pissed off looking Devon, blood dripping down his face from the hit he took, following behind. He glares at me.

I let my eyes slide to the left, spotting a man holding his arm, blood seeping through his fingers. Dark hair, dark eyes but he didn’t look pissed. He looked interested.

“Atlas,” Gabriel orders with a loud, authoritative growl, “Take the gun off her head.”

He only presses it in harder.

“Atlas!”

I feel the man I now know as Atlas step up closer, “Watch your back.” He says it so quietly no one else hears him but the warning rings loud and clear. This man was dangerous. Deadly. I don’t dare move until the gun is removed from my head. When it is, Atlas moves away quickly, giving me his back as he storms to the one I cut.

“I’m good, brother,” he says to Atlas, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Devon,” Gabriel orders, “See to Asher. Atlas, get the fuck out.”

I start to back up, tiptoeing my way towards the door.

---