Page 17 of There Are No Saints

I’m not killing this girl.

Even if I dispatched her in the most dispassionate manner possible, it would still create a perverse bond between Alastor and me, something I’ve continuously refused.

I won’t give Alastor what he wants. Not after he intruded on my sacred space.

He’ll be punished, not rewarded.

Which leaves only two options.

I could play the hero, save the girl.

That would cause all kinds of unwanted complications. She’s seen my face—and who knows what she’s seen of Shaw. She could lead the cops back here.

The other option is to simply . . . walk right by.

Alastor slashed her deep, and the night is cold. We’re miles from civilization. She’ll bleed to death on the path. Then it’s up to Alastor to pick up his own trash.

I don’t like the loose ends. If someone finds her body, if the police come poking around, we’re only a mile from my dumping ground.

But the mine is well hidden, not marked on any map.

The only way to win this particular game is to refuse to play. That’s what will enrage Shaw the most.

So I take one last glance at the girl’s beautifully tortured body.

Then I step over her and carry on my way.

* * *

4

Mara

Ilay on the ground, my entire body throbbing, burning, slashed, and bruised. Some of the hurts flare up in acute agony—my jaw is particularly painful from its collision with the ground. The rest of me feels so heavy that I might as well be trapped inside a cement suit. I’m weighed down, compressed by it. For the first time in my life, I understand why it might be a relief to allow the soul to slip from the body. Pain overrides my fear.

I know I’m bleeding from my wrists, but I can hardly feel it, and that scares me worse than anything.

I’m getting colder and colder.

I hear footsteps coming up the path and I stiffen, thinking that this fucking psychopath has returned. He pretended to leave just to fuck with me.

But there’s something different in the stride.

The man who brought me here walked heavily. These steps are so light, so subtle, that for a moment I think I’m imagining them. Hope flutters up in my chest, thinking it might be someone else, maybe even a woman . . .

Then I turn and I see death himself come to claim me.

The man is tall, slim, and dark.

He’s wearing a black suit, flawlessly tailored, incongruous in this barren place. It stands out starkly against the pale flesh of his throat and hands. His black hair, thick and lustrous, frames the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

An artist is always looking at ratios and proportions.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes, the straight slashes of his brows, the line of his nose, the high cheekbones and razor-fine jaw, all relieved by the flawless curve of his lips—I’ve never seen such perfect balance.

It’s so surreal, I think I must be hallucinating.

Especially once he stops and stands over me, looking down.

---