Tally gives him a look, but she doesn’t correct him.
That doesn’t track with what happened last night. I don’t remember much after Saint fucked me into his mattress but the feeling of his arms around my waist, pulling me back into his chest is still running through my head. It’s the reason I fell asleep. For as scary and chaotic as the Obsidian world is, Saint was there.
And he held me.
And he slept.
Tally raises an eyebrow, running her tongue across her top lip. “Something tells me you’re way more than a pretty face. From what I heard of that meeting, you’ve got a lot of information in that head of yours. I’ve seen part of that this morning. However, I have a feeling you’re going to be good for Saint.”
I mumble a thanks, unsure of what else to say as I trudge back toward the kitchen for more coffee. Maybe the caffeine will help. It probably won’t.
Oisín
Byevening,myheadis full of maps, names, doorways, warnings, and pieces of Saint I’m apparently not supposed to have. He doesn’t sleep when the product goes wrong. He gets worse when the corridor is unstable. Bricks shadows the exits for him. Moth tracks everything and everyone. Demo is terrified of Saint, and Tally knows more than she should and only offers what’s needed.
The dynamic here is both similar and different to the Rogues. More laidback and yet knitted tighter than the club I grew up in. I remember chaos and scrambling to make things work. As Varina fitted herself into her role, things evened out but it wasn’t always like that.
However, here, I can see years and decades of rules, guidelines, and unspoken paths that everything has followed. It means that things are predictable.
I take up residence near the back of the main room by a window, trying to stay out of the way while the clubhouse shifts from daytime discipline into nighttime tension. At least at my clubhouse, I had numbers to keep me busy. Here, I have nothing.
And no one wants to speak to me, either terrified I’ll take something back to the Rogues or to Saint. I’m not sure which one they think is worse.
Over the next hour, my attention shifts as I stop being bored and wait for Saint. I hate myself for it, because every time the side door opens, my body notices before my mind can pretend it doesn’t.
When he finally comes in, the room knows before I do. The conversation dips, each of the Obsidian members straightening and moving into place. Saint walks in wearing a black shirt beneath his cut, a small smear of dried blood near one knuckle. His gaze moves across the room once, taking inventory with the precision of someone checking locks.
Then it finds me.
I swallow nervously, bracing for his next move. It’s like the entire room has their breath held as Saint stalks over to me without a word. He catches the back of my neck in his palm, and steers me toward the hallway.
“Hello to you too,” I mutter, about to ask about the blood on his hand.
His thumb presses in beneath my ear. “Quiet.”
My mouth shuts, my face heating all the way to my ears. Every Obsidian eye in the room tracks the way Saint moves me through the clubhouse like my resistance is a detail he has already accounted for.
He takes me into an office I haven’t seen yet, smaller than Sol’s boardroom but more personal than Moth’s. There’s a dark desk, locked cabinets, two chairs, a low couch against one wall, and a map of the eastern corridor pinned under glass. A phone on the desk is already lit with an incoming call. Saint releases me only long enough to shut the door and answer it.
“Talk.”
I stand near the guest chair, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. Saint listens to whoever is on the phone, eyes moving over the map while his face gives nothing away. The silence in the office feels heavier than the noise outside.
I take two steps toward the shelves, needing something to focus on. I take in the brass lighter, a stack of files, and a small carved wooden horse that looks wildly out of place beside a handgun magazine.Interesting.I have no idea why Saint brought me in here, though some part of me knows it’s just for control.
My fingers brush the horse before I think better of it.
Saint’s head snaps up to me. “Would you fucking sit down?”
I jerk my hand back. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
He points to the floor beside his chair.
Not the guest chair.
The floor.
My entire body locks up, and for one second the room seems to tilt around the command. Saint keeps the phone against his ear and says to whoever is on the other end, “No, keep going,” while his eyes remain on me.
