My stomach drops.
“You’re not sneaky,” he adds, pushing away from the wall. “You’re quiet. There’s a difference.”
Saint’s room is empty when I get upstairs. For one wild second, I think maybe Bricks only left a message, maybe Saint won’t know until morning, maybe I have time to decide which version of the truth will hurt least. Then the door opens behind me, and Saint steps inside, still wearing his cut, expression calm enough to make my skin go cold.
He shuts the door and turns the lock. I’m standing near the bed with my shoes still on and damp at the cuffs of my jeans, the lie already waiting in my mouth because the truth has Varina’s fingerprints all over it. Saint takes in my appearance and the way I’m holding my arms too close to my body. He doesn’t ask where I was immediately, which is worse. He lets the room make the accusation first.
“Bricks said you left.”
“I needed air.”
His gaze drops to my shoes again. “Six blocks’ worth?”
I don’t answer quickly enough.
His mouth moves, almost a smile, and nowhere near one. “Try again, Sín.”
I could say Varina wanted information, that Canon intended the alliance as a takeover, that I might be the wrong Ward for the marriage, but not necessarily the wrong Ward for the plan. But saying it out loud means admitting my sister looked me in theface and asked me to become exactly what Saint already suspects I am.
So I give him the only truth I can survive. “I missed her.”
Saint studies me for another second, then crosses the room slowly. He leaves a few inches between us, not touching me at all. “You’re a terrible liar,” he chuckles.
“Then stop asking questions you already know the answers to.”
His hand finally lifts, catching the hem of my shirt. He pulls it up slowly, not with the hunger he usually brings to bed and not with enough gentleness for me to mistake it for kindness. The patience is the punishment. I let him strip it off because my body learned the shape of his orders too quickly, and because some ruined part of me wants the argument to end in a language I understand.
Saint’s gaze moves over every mark he left, every bruise blooming dark along my ribs, the fading bite on my collarbone, and the fingerprint-shaped shadows on my hips. He reaches down and palms my cock through my jeans, squeezing once, hard enough that my breath catches.
“Already getting hard for me,” he muses, a dark chuckle following. “Even when you’re pissed off and lying through your teeth.”
My cock thickens under his hand, straining against the denim, and a helpless sound slips out of me before I can swallow it. Saint rubs his thumb over the head through the fabric, my hips jerking forward without permission.
“Saint—”
“Quiet.” He pops the button, drags the zipper down, and shoves my jeans and underwear to my thighs in one rough motion. My cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He wraps his hand around me, offering a punishing stroke that makes my knees buckle.
My breathing quickens as he picks up his pace, alternating squeezes and strokes while I try to stay upright. Pre-come slicks his palm and he uses it, twisting at the head on every upstroke until my thighs start to shake.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes on my face instead of my cock. “Panting like a whore after one touch. You hate how much you need this, don’t you?”
My lips fall open, a small moan filtering through. My cock throbs in his fist, harder than it has any right to be when I’m still so angry. He strokes faster, thumb pressing right under the head on every pass, and my head falls back against the wall with a dull thud.
“Saint… please—”
Saint’s gaze moves over every mark he left, every reaction I fail to bury. “I don’t feel like fucking a liar.”
A devastating smirk spreads across his face as he releases me. He steps back and points to the bed. “Get in.”
I open my mouth to fight him, Saint’s expression only darkening further. I give in and obey, about to say something else when Saint turns off the light, effectively killing the conversation.
Saint
Bythenextevening,I’m in a bad enough mood that even Bricks stops trying to make it worse for entertainment. He sits to my left at the bar with one boot hooked around the stool rung and a glass of whiskey resting untouched near his hand, which tells me he’s waiting for the room to decide whether tonight is going to end in laughter or blood. Bricks doesn’t ignore liquor unless something more interesting is happening, and right now, the interesting thing is Oisín sitting on my other side with a glass of water between his hands and a lie still caught somewhere behind his teeth.
He’s been wrong all day. Quiet, which is normal for him, but not quiet in the way he goes when he’s watching a room. This is different. He keeps glancing toward the front door when itopens, keeps losing track of conversations halfway through, and keeps touching the rim of his glass without drinking from it. Tally asked him twice if he wanted food, and both times he answered a second late, like he had to drag himself back from somewhere else before his mouth could work.
I know where he went last night. Bricks told me before I came upstairs, and Oisín confirmed it by lying badly enough to insult us both. A coffee shop six blocks away with Varina waiting in a back booth. My pretty little Rogue coming home with damp cuffs, a pale face, and a story about missing his sister.
