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“You’re going to fall in love with me,” he promises.
I drag a deep breath in to finally fill my lungs. “Making me come . . . isn’t going to . . . make me . . . fall in love with you.”
His finger winds in a tendril of my hair. I don’t have to see beneath the mask to know his dark eyes are glinting at my breathlessness. “It’s much deeper than that. I’m the yin to your yang. The other half of your soul. We’re both broken, but our pieces fit perfectly together to make each other whole again. You want someone who’s obsessed with you. You want to be the only woman who exists in his world. You’ll only find that with me.”
As much as I hate to admit it...he’s right. Every time I ended a relationship, every time I decided a man didn’t truly love me, it’s because I wasn’t the center of his world. No manhas ever followed me home, secretly hidden cameras in my house to monitor my movements, tracked down my mother to convince her he’s the one for me. Most of them didn’t even know my middle name. Saint knows my full name, my birthday, my driver’s license number, my schedule, my favorite wine. He knows how to make me come harder than I ever have in my life.
Certainly no one else has ever killed for me.
Some part of me buried deep down is just as sick and twisted as him.Enjoysbeing wanted this much.
“You have this feeling you can’t place,” he murmurs. “Like nostalgia, but for a life you’ve never had, a person you’ve never met. Now you’ve finally found me, muse.”
My heart stutters, suddenly more bare in front of him than I’ve ever been. No one has ever put that feeling into words for me before. That longing, that search for the one person you know is missing from your life, the person you know will fill those aching, lonely gaps inside you. Wondering when you’ll find them. If they even exist at all.
Tears prick my eyes. When Saint and I met, I told him S.T. Nicholson’s writing makes me feelunderstood in a way no one else in the world has ever understood me. That if we met, we wouldget each other on a deeper level than anyone else ever could.
Now I know he does.
Saint leans forward and releases the belt from around my wrists. I cradle them, rubbing the tender skin where I yanked too hard against the belt while he had me in the throes of ecstasy.
He leans down, lifting his mask just enough so his breath can caress the shell of my ear. “You are mine, muse. Now you will never forget.”
Without another word, he’s off me, goosebumps instantly pricking along my exposed skin from the absence of his warmth. The mask covers his face, but I know he’s grinning as heslides back out the window and shuts it behind him before disappearing into the night.
What thefuckwas that?
And why did I love it so much?
“He’s going to kill me,” Mack blurts.
I’m still bleary-eyed and half-unconscious. “Wait . . . what?”
“He’s going to kill me,” she repeats matter-of-factly. “I had a dream.”
I flop back down and roll my eyes. “Seriously? You woke me up over adream?”
“A nightmare! I don’t know how, but all I remember is him coming toward me while I was crouched on my knees and then black. But I just knew. I knew he killed me.”
“Who?”
“James, obviously. Who else?”
“I don’t know, whoever else haunts your dreams. Freddy Kreuger, maybe. I shouldn’t have made you watch all those horror films. You scare too easily.”
“Yes, you are definitely to blame for these recurring nightmares.”
“You’ve dreamt of him killing you before?”
“Well, yes, but that was back when I was with him. This is the first time I’ve had a nightmare about it since I moved out here.”
“Were you up late watching true crime again?”
Silence.
“Mack,” I nudge.
“I plead the fifth!” She sips loudly on what I assume is her usual herbal tea. “Anyway, tell me about your dreams instead to clear my head. Please tell me they’re sexy.”
