Page 87 of My Fallen Saint

“Maybe I could have.” He meets my eyes as he speaks, and I can’t tell if it’s pain or regret I see on his face. Maybe both. “But we were both so damn young.”

“I get that,” I say. “But now…” I trail off, not wanting to sound needy. But if this is what’s been holding him back—hell, if this is why he left—then that changes everything between us.

But then there he is shaking his head, and I know that just like when we were kids, he’s read my mind.

“I’m not the same man, Ellie. I’ve seen too much. Hell, I’ve done too much. Life fucked me up, and I set up the DSF to give me some peace. I cherish every damn moment I’ve ever spent with you, but the DSF’s my mistress now, and I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Yes. You were.”

My chest tightens, and I expel a weird little laugh. “Yes. I was.”

He comes to me then, and when he sits beside me and takes my hands, I want to fall into his touch. “I’m so, so glad you came back. At first, I thought it would tear me apart—us both apart—but now I know I needed this. You. And I’m so damn grateful for Vegas and what we shared. But it’s a memory now, and that’s all it can be.”

I nod, not liking that reality but understanding it.

“You’ll be going back to New York soon.”

“Right,“ I say. “That’s where my life is now.”

He slides his hands into his pockets. “Exactly. That’s where your life is now.”

I nod. Even if I could stay—even if he wanted me—I don’t know that I would. There are too many ghosts in Laguna Cortez.

He cups my cheek. “I’m not going to ask if you will because I know you’ll keep my secret. And I know you must have more questions, but it’s already past four and you look exhausted.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He grins. “Do you want me to drive you home? Or you can sleep here. I have a guest room.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

He brings me one of his T-shirts to sleep in, then leads me to the spare room. Then he kisses me on my forehead. “I never wanted you to know. But now that you do, I’m glad.”

He shuts the door behind me, leaving me to my thoughts and fears and the empty creak of an unfamiliar house at four in the morning. A lost, lonely time.

I try to sleep, but it’s no use. And though I know he doesn’t want me to—and though I truly only want comfort—I quietly move through the house to Devlin’s bedroom.

I hear his slow, even breaths from the doorway and move quietly to the bed. I slide under the covers so that we are back to back, and as soon as my head hits the pillow, sleep begins to settle over me.

The last thing I feel before I drift away is the shift of the bed as Devlin rolls over, and the warm press of his body spooning against mine.