Page 31 of My Fallen Saint

“Strangely enough, I don’t take orders from you.”

One of his brows lifts, and a shiver cuts through me as a whisper of a memory haunts me. His breath on my face. His voice raw as he makes his demand, Come for me, baby.

I had. Just last night, I’d surrendered, and even now I feel the pressure between my thighs. That ache of need, that pinch of desire. I want him. And I hate myself for it.

“Why the hell did you show yourself to me?” The words lash out of me. “You could have kept your distance, held onto your story. Made me believe that you were just a man who looks a little like a boy I once loved. A bastard who betrayed me. Why show me? Why the fuck did you show me? I mean, seriously? Do you hate me that much that you couldn’t resist another chance to hurt me?”

“I don’t hate you.” His voice is even and level without even a hint of emotion. If I weren’t so pissed, I’d be impressed by his control.

I nod slowly. “Fine. You don’t hate me. You just blew off our interview yesterday and then told me to leave.”

I wait for him to correct me. To point out that he had a conflict. Instead, he tilts his head to one side. “And yet here you are.”

I lean back into the sofa and cross my legs. “Did you really think I would go? Please. I came for the spectacle.”

“Detective Gage bought your ticket.”

“No. Tamra gave me one.”

His eyes widen at that, and I immediately regret the words. I have a feeling I’ve just brought the wrath of Saint down on her. So I’m surprised by his next question.

“You came with the detective. Is he your date?”

“Obviously.” I feel no guilt at the little white lie. “You still haven’t answered my question. About why you told me who you are in the first place.”

“No,” he says. “I haven’t.”

Shit. I shift gears. “Why do you care about Detective Gage?” Lamar’s helping me look into the Peter question. Maybe that’s what caught his attention?

One shoulder rises and falls. “I was curious.”

“Curious?” I sound like a parrot, and I frown. But my mind is spinning. He obviously has an agenda, but I don’t see it. “About what?”

He leans back, openly studying me. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“Excuse me?” He did not just ask me that.

“Sorry. I can phrase that better. Are you fucking him?”

A hot wire of anger curls through me, and I tap my finger on the table to release some of the energy that would otherwise be slapping him. “Are you intentionally trying to piss me off?”

He looks at me, his face hard and his green eyes intense. And, damn me, my anger fades, shifting into something a little like fear.

I shiver, then force myself to sit up straighter. “Who I sleep with is none of your business. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

“You’re right, of course. You’re not on my radar at all.”

I flinch, the words hitting me like a blade through my heart. I don’t want him to see how much he’s hurt me, but it’s too late for that. I’ve already flinched. And, damn me, when I speak, my throat is thick with tears. “You arrogant prick.” The words come out raw but soft, not at all the harsh lashes of words I want to lay on him.

And the worst of it? I’m coming completely undone and he’s just sitting there.

I try again. “You despicable bastard.”

Something shifts on his face, and for a moment—just one fleeting, heart-wrenching moment—I see a flicker of regret.

Then he bends over to pick up his glass, his face temporarily out of my view. When he sits up again, his features are as set as a statue, and when he meets my eyes, I see nothing but steel. “I’m not the boy I was,” he says. “As far as you’re concerned—as far as I’m concerned—Alex Leto is dead and gone.”