He moves slowly like I’m wounded. He wraps the towel around my shoulders, tucking it close beneath my chin. His hands are enormous, scarred, gentle.
That is what ruins me when he’s around. The violence I know lives in him is replaced by the gentleness I don’t understand.
When I try to stand, my knees don’t hold. He catches me before I hit the tile.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. I press my face against his chest and breathe him in. Cedar. The slight dampness of his hoodie mixed with the smell of smoke and vanilla.
He carries me out of the bathroom, down the quiet hallway, and into my dorm room. I’m glad it’s the middle of the night, and everyone is asleep. He sets me on the edge of the bed.
Then he turns away and finds a dry shirt and shorts inside the drawer near my desk.
“Put some dry clothes on,” he says, handing them to me.
My throat tightens when he gives me his back. It feels more intimate than looking ever could.
I change with shaking hands into an oversized shirt and sleep shorts.
When I’m done, I whisper, “Okay.”
Saint turns around and kneels in front of me and takes one of my hands between both of his.
Warmth closes around my fingers. “I know you have questions, but I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”
I look down, and his grip tightens slightly. I can’t tell him about Roman. It’s too risky. What if Roman makes everything worse? For me. For Saint.
“Did someone touch you?”
I shake my head. “No.” The room seems to darken around him.
His jaw flexes. “You would tell me if someone did, right?”
I go still and then nod.
Saint waits. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows something is wrong.
Finally, I look toward the mattress where I left the envelope. He follows my gaze.
He grabs the envelope and opens it.
His eyes move swiftly as he reads, but nothing in his expression changes.
When Saint is angry, the world usually feels it, but this is different. I don’t know what he is thinking. It’s not real, but I was with Roman even though he turned out to be a monster.
He folds the paper once, slides it back into the envelope, and places it on the desk.
“You’re not signing that.”
A broken laugh escapes me. “You don’t understand.”
His eyes cut to mine. “I understand ownership, and I know men who confuse fear with consent.” His voice lowers. “I understand cages, Amy.”
My chest aches. “Roman doesn’t stop.”
Saint steps closer. “No, but I have a name for the person you’re running from. From the look of it, I don’t see you thrilled to be his wife.”
