Page 8 of Seal My Fate

She pauses, looking reluctant. “Trust goes both ways,” I remind her. “Pinky promise, remember?”

She relaxes a little. “Do you have your phone?”

I pull it out. She takes it, and programs in a number. “You can reach me with this,” she says, handing it back. I see that she’s put the name as ‘birdy,’ a childhood nickname Dad used.

“Will you be safe? ” I ask, feeling a pang. “If you would just come back with me, you could stay with us, we could figure this out—”

“I’ll be fine,” Wren interrupts. “I’ll talk to you soon. But please… Be careful with Saint. What I just told you, about the drug results… That’s information someone would kill to protect.”

She turns on her heel and strides away before I can say another word. I watch her go, my heart aching with fear and confusion.

Will I ever see her again?

Part of me wants to follow her, and make sure she’s safe, but I know I can’t risk breaking the fragile trust we have now. She’s made it this far; I have to believe that she knows how to take care of herself.

So, I slowly turn and begin my journey home. I walk back to the Tube station in a daze, and almost miss my stop back in Kensington. By the time I’ve made it down the luxurious leafy streets to Saint’s house, a million miles from the noise and bustle of East London, the whole afternoon with Wren feels like a dream.

“Hello?”

I hear Saint’s voice calling when I let myself in. “It’s me,” I call back, and follow the sound of his yell up the stairs to one of the guest bedrooms. It’s up on the third floor, perched under the slanted eaves of what used to be an attic. I look around, curious. I haven’t been up here, besides Saint’s insistence that we fuck in every room in the house to celebrate my arrival.

“What’s going on?” I ask. The bed that used to occupy most of the space is now dismantled in pieces in the corner, and there’s a desk against the wall now, and a comfortable armchair in front of the window. Saint is assembling bookcases on one wall, parts and power tools spread on the floor around him.

He straightens up with a smile, his head nearly skimming the lowest part of the ceiling. “You’re early,” he says, greeting me with a kiss. “Ignore the mess. I wanted to surprise you.”

“With what?”

“Your new office,” he says proudly. “Slash library, slash kinky sex den. Whatever you want.”

My heart melts. “This is for me?” I ask, looking around again. The room is cozy and sunlit, and I can just picture curling up here with my laptop or a good book.

“All yours,” Saint confirms. “There’s already more than enough room for guests downstairs, and I have my office, so why shouldn’t you have your own space, too? We can decorate any way you like,” he adds. “Bubblegum pink and all. Although, we might have a hard time getting a pinball machine up two flights of stairs,” he adds with a grin, calling back to my earlier jokes about a big redesign.

I shake my head. “It’s perfect as it is,” I tell him, and it is. The guest room was already done up with a classic William Morris wallpaper, and now with the plush velvet chaise and a vintage standing lamp, it’s the ideal reading nook. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Saint says, pulling me into a kiss. I melt against him for a moment, reveling in the warmth of his embrace, but too soon, my guilt over Wren drowns out the moment.

I hate keeping secrets from him, especially something this big, that affects his life and family, too.

I pull away, and bury my face in his chest, hugging him tightly. Saint seems surprised, but he holds me, gently stroking my hair as I try to pull myself together.

“Sorry,” I blurt, stepping back.

“It’s OK.” Saint looks at me with tenderness in his dark eyes. “I think I know what’s going on.”

“You do?” I pause, certain my guilt is written all over my face.

“It’s Wren, isn’t it?”

I look at him in panic.How does he know?

“What do you mean?” I gulp, wishing so much that I could just come clean. That this secret wasn’t looming between us, when all I want to do is hold him tightly.

Saint brushes a lock of hair from my face, still so supportive and understanding. “I know it must be hard, to move on,” he explains. “You’ve spent months focused on finding out who attacked her. Of course you’re going to feel a little lost and disoriented, without that purpose driving you anymore.”

I exhale in a whoosh. “Right,” I say quietly, my guilt twisting sharper than ever. “You’re right.”

“It’ll be OK,” Saint reassures me. “I know a lot of terrible things have happened, and a part of you will always grieve that loss. But you deserve to be happy. Life is short; you have a lot to celebrate, too.”

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