I want Saint. I want…more…I just still don't know what that more is.
Saint comes home late. It's past midnight, but I'm still awake, sitting by the window, thinking.
"Hey." He comes over and kisses my head. "You've been in here all day." It's a statement. A reminder that everything I do in this house is watched, especially these days. Because I've proven myself untrustworthy—multiple times.
Saint hasn't said it, but I know he thinks it, and it's just another example of how things between us haven't changed.
I sigh. "We need to talk."
"About?"
I turn to look at him. "About what happens next. About what you said. About me being a weapon."
He sits down across from me. "I meant it as a compliment. I was Antonio's weapon," he says it so easily, like it's not an insult, and it's because he doesn't see it that way.
"A weapon is an object," I lean forward. "You were never Antonio's weapon. He groomed you to take over. You always had power."
Saint closes his eyes, sighing slightly. I know he's frustrated. He doesn't understand what I want. Hell, I don't either, but he's never going to understand because he's a man.
"I don't see you as an object, Gemma," he says, slowly. "I don't know what I need to do for you to understand that."
"Don't you?" My voice rises. "You've been deciding what I am since we got married. First, I was the unwilling bride. Then theliability. Then the ghost. Now I'm the weapon. You just assume I'm happy to be used, as long as I agree to it, but I'm not happy, Saint. I've been used my entire life. It's exhausting."
He's quiet.
"Last night you said you love me," I continue. "In the middle of gunfire. When you thought we might die. You said it." It comes out more accusatory than I intend.
Saint nods. "I did."
I hate his ability to just shut down and pretend. I know Saint's brain doesn't work like my own, but it doesn't mean I can't find his reticence maddening.
"Do you still mean it? Now? When we're safe and you're not terrified?"
He meets my eyes. "Yes. I love you," he says it so simply. Like I should already know it. And though it should make me happy, it pisses me off.
"But you don't trust me."
He presses his fingertip to his temples.
"I do trust?—"
"No," I snap. "You don't. Please, don't lie to me."
"Gemma, you don't understand."
"You say you love me. You say I'm dangerous. But I know you haven't forgiven me." I blink back a tear. "And I don't know if I've forgiven you."
He glares, dropping his hands.
"That's not fair?—"
"Isn't it?" I stop in front of him, so that we are as eye-to-eye as we can be. "You gave me to Adrian. You watched as he beat me, and then, sat by and said nothing as he disowned me. I went to Alexei—twice. I put all of us in danger. I take responsibility for that, but you've never really taken responsibility."
"I was trying to save the family?—"
I throw my hands up in irritation. "By sacrificing me. Yes. I know. You've said." My voice cracks. "You just moved on, and you expected me to be grateful that I was still here."
"I am sorry?—"
