Page 123 of There Are No Saints

“He’s not exactly taking care of her,” I point out. “He’s seducing her. Manipulating her.”

Mara turns her head, staring at me steadily with those metal-edged irises.

“I don’t want to be taken care of,” she says. “I want to be seen.”

My heart rate spikes as it only does for Mara. Not when I’m angry. Not when I’m violent. Only for her.

I was an ambush predator. I lived by concealment and camouflage.

What would it be like to strip myself bare?

It feels like destruction. Like immolation.

What if I’m wrong?

Could the pleasure of intimacy outweigh the danger?

This is a question perched on a cliff. No peering over—I’ll only find the bottom by jumping.

Mara stares right back at me, ferocious, unashamed. Certain of what she wants and how to get it.

I’ve never held back from what I wanted.

Not for morals. Not for laws. I’ll be damned if I’ll do it for fear.

I’ve taken a life, but never shared a life.

I feel my hand lifting over the covers, crossing the space between us, cupping the fine curve of her jaw while my thumb rests on her full lower lip.

“I see you,” I say.

“I know you do,” Mara replies, quietly. “And I want to see you.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

She doesn’t blink or even hesitate.

“It’s not a wish. It’s a requirement.”

* * *

32

Mara

Cole drives me home early in the morning. I’m planning to catch a couple hours’ sleep, then head over to the studio to work.

The intimacy between us is fragile but real, like a thin rim of ice across a lake. I don’t know if it’s strong enough to bear weight just yet . . . but I’m already walking across.

He pulls up to the curb, flipping the car around so I can exit on the passenger side.

“Well, thanks for . . . whatever that was,” I say, half smiling, half blushing.

I touch the handle of the door, planning to climb out.

“Wait,” Cole says, grabbing me by the back of the neck and pulling me back inside instead. He kisses me, deep and warm, with just a hint of a bite as his teeth catch my lower lip, before releasing me.

The kiss makes my head spin. His scent clings to my clothes: steel shavings, machine oil, cold Riesling, expensive cologne. And Cole himself. The man and the monster. Layered together like sediment, like cake.

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