We come together, hard enough I see stars, her body clenching around me as I empty inside her, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. “So fucking good.”
I don’t move. I rub my hands along her back, kneading her hips, riding out the last aftershocks until my cock stops pulsing. Only then do I lean in, press two quick, hungry kisses to her spine. “Fuck, Saint.”
I pull out, slow, watching as my cock slides free—soaked. No shame in it. She sits up and turns to me as I grab the half-used roll of paper towels from the back, tear off a wad, and slide my hand between her legs. The touch is gentler now. She shivers, but meets my eyes with a smirk that promises I’m not done with her, not by a long shot.
“Well, that was cathartic,” I say, cleaning us up with clinical efficiency.
She snorts. “You may not be good for much, but you can fuck.”
I let my other hand wander down the curve of her ass, squeezing, my nose brushing hers. “Are you flirting with me, Saint James?” I catch her mouth in a soft, claiming kiss before she can answer.
When I pull away, I murmur, “Because I’ll happily fuck you again if you’ve not had enough.”
She slides her panties on—deliberately slow, letting me watch. “I doubt you’d be able to get it up again,” she says coolly, but her eyes flick down. She knows exactly how long I can go.
Her pants come next. “Besides, I want to get back to Dr. Creepy’s and see what’s on that laptop.”
I finish wiping off, toss the used paper towels behind me, and watch her lace up her boots. We climb out, the cold air biting at our skin.
I tuck my cock back into my pants as she rounds the SUV, her eyes on me the whole time.
“But I’m driving this time.”
Alejandrobangs on Doctor Disgusting’s door for five minutes, fist aching by the time the locks start rattling. Inside, he’s probably tripping over his own filth. He finally gets it open—twelve different bolts sliding, scraping, protesting. The place doesn’t smell any better than usual. If anything, it’s worse. There’s a tang that sticks to your teeth, like copper left out in the rain. Once you know he eats people, you can’t smell anything else.
I’d rather take my chances outside. Let the world’s assassins try their luck. At least then I know what I’m up against.
Alejandro pushes inside, eyes scanning the room, always on edge. “Boot up the laptop. I’m getting lunch.”
I’m not going to argue it. I’m fucking starving. I rummage under the counter, surprised when I actually find a bottle of cleaner—miracle. I give the table a scrub and wash my hands. There’s no point dying of infection before someone manages to shoot me.
I power up the laptop and text Grim.I’ll need you—soon.He answers before I even put the phone down. Typical. Always waiting for the next mess I’m about to drag himinto.
For a second, I glance over my shoulder—like Alejandro’s going to be standing there, demanding to know why I trust Grim. He can’t know. No one can. That’s not a risk I’ll ever take.
I’m dying for something to drink so I pull the fridge door open and instantly regret it. It’s like Jeffrey Dahmer got a membership at Sam’s Club.
Naturally there would be a severed fucking head sitting on a dinner plate. Yellowed skin, milky eyes rolled up, mouth slightly sagging. My mouth curves down in a frown.
There’s a jar of fingers floating in brine—like the world’s worst pickles—next to a half-gallon of OJ and a takeout box slick with oil. The “beef medallions” on the bottom shelf don’t look like anything that ever mooed.
I slam the fridge shut before I puke. I don’t even like meat. Definitely not pickled fingers or an ear sandwich-bagged like leftovers. My skin crawls and a shiver grabs hold of my spine.
The lock clicks again, and Alejandro returns, arms full—two white paper bags bulging with containers, another stuffed with water bottles. Thank fuck. I’m dry as dust.
He sets the bags on the table. “I wouldn’t go looking for food here if I were you,” he warns, a beat too late.
I ignore him, tearing into the bags. He’s gone out of his way—not a scrap of meat in sight. Not even for him. I catch his eye, chopsticks pausing over a piece of tofu dripping in chili oil. He acts like it’s nothing, but I see him watching me scan the spread—crispy tofu, lo mien, spring rolls, vegan kimbap, a pile of bean sprouts and mushrooms. All of it safe.
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Figured you wouldn’t be able to stomach much here.”
I grin, mouth already full. “The pickled fingers were looking tempting, but this is better.”
He just smirks and digs in, and for the first time since we got away, the air between us isn’t poison.
We’re sitting so close our thighs touch, laptop balanced between us, the table still smelling faintly of bleach and whatever the hell Dr. Disgusting was chopping up earlier. I steer with one hand—opening folders, swiping through files—while Alejandro eats beside me, always half-watching the door. Grim’s on speaker, his voice low and precise, the hum of his servers in the background.
“You’re safe,” Grim says, matter-of-fact. “The laptop’s cold. No signal, no ping. They’d need God himself to trace you now.”
