Page 57 of No Saint

Lincoln was with Camille, and it was better that way for tonight. I knew he was safe with her and after today I didn’t want him in the house until a discussion had been held about the events that caused so much death.

Too shaken to sleep I switch on the lamp and pull my sketchbook out, refusing to let my mind reel back to the blood and death from hours ago. The shock had worn off, but the fear remained. But it was as always, it wasn’t for me, it was for my son.

And that was one of the reasons why I could never give myself to Gabriel.

He was dangerous.

This life was dangerous.

I hadn’t escaped my past for this.

My pencil moves swiftly across the blank paper, scratching in a comforting way that settles the riot in my chest. I draw on instinct, lines crossing and features blending as I add a dramatic skirt to a corset styled bodice, the flare of the hem wide and sweeping.

I draw for hours, adding detail and shadow to the woman on the page, it wasn’t a design per se but a release. I start on the color next, adding a deep red to the dress that reminded me of the blood splattered across Gabriel’s beautiful face.

Shifting on the bed, I wince when the pain in my ribs twinges and causes a flinch that accidentally knocks all my pencils to the floor. “Shit.”

With a groan, I climb off, leaving my pad in the centre to crouch to collect them. Sounds of footsteps pauses my hand.

My door opens.

Gabriel stands there, freshly showered, his dark hair still wet and falling across his forehead. I swallow as I take in the hard lines of his abdomen, the ridges of his well-formed muscle. A low hanging pair of slacks sits on his hips, showcasing the deep V and the trail of dark hair that travels from his navel and disappears beneath the band. His white shirt, unbuttoned, is folded to the elbows on the sleeves, ropes of muscle making his forearms pop and the prominent veins stand out from his flesh.

His eyes flare as he looks down at me, the hazel like a burning pit. A half empty glass dangles from the tips of his fingers.

I rise slowly, as if it isn’t a man in the room with me, but an animal and one quick movement would set him off. You don’t run from a predator and hope to get away. I hadn’t realized I’d started to back up until my spine hits the wall.

I can’t help but let my eyes drag over him once more, noticing the scars that litter his tanned skin that I hadn’t caught when he first showed up in my doorway. He lifts his glass and takes a sip before dropping the glass back to his side again. His muscles ripple and flex, every hard inch of him as menacing as I thought. But beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

“Are you drunk?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

After our meeting previously I didn’t know where he’d gone, he’d showered obviously.

He takes a step towards me and while I try to press myself further back into the wall, as if to melt right into it, I know there is nowhere to go.

There’s only so much I can take.

He takes another step, another, until he’s right in front of me, those fiery hazel eyes boring down into mine. I smell the whiskey on his breath and watch as he brings that glass back up, tipping the remaining liquid into his mouth. My eyes catch on his throat, watching it bob as he swallows and then gently, so damn gently, as if he wasn’t a man built for violence and sin, he places the glass down on the bedside table so it doesn’t even make a sound.

“I’m something,” He finally answers my question.

“I don’t want to fight right now, Gabriel,” I was tired and close to breaking point. What happened after I broke? I wasn’t ready to find out.

He leans forward a touch, reaching up to snag a length of my hair and then rubs the strands between his fingers, “So soft,” he mumbles.

I could smell him, the spice and leather of his body wash, mixed with his own natural scent, a musky, intoxicating scent that was all Gabriel. All this beautiful deadly man.

I swallow, “Please leave.”

“Potresti amarmi, Amelia,”The words roll off his tongue, his deep baritone and the way the language sounds sending delicious waves down my spine that end up between my legs, making my thighs ache with a need I didn’t want to name. It had a profound impact on me, even if I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, “You could love me, Amelia.” He finally says.

Wait…what? Was that what he had said before?

“If you let go of this hate,” he says, keeping eye contact, “You could love me. I could provide for you.”

“I don’t need you.”

“No.” He agrees.

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