Page 115 of Godless Saints

This morning, however, was different.

A sleek black box sat beside the tray. Expensive. Understated. Inside: my old penguin keychain, cleaned and restored. Heavy blackened silver clasp. Two new charms—a crescent moon and a tiny silver shamrock.

I stared at them for a long time, thumb tracing the cool metal. A moon and a shamrock. Cillian’s quiet, ridiculous way of saying us.

Warmth spread through my chest, soft and completely fucking unwelcome. God… he actually wants to marry me. For one second I let myself feel it.

My thumb kept tracing the crescent moon. Infuriating. And the only thing keeping me tethered.

Vivienne and Sawyer were less subtle.

Group chat blew up until I answered: I’m alive.

Vivienne showed up twice, refused to leave until I opened the door.

Declan had backed off. For now. Lorcan’s humiliation of Ronan had been enough to make him stay away. And Lorcan had handled the photos. I knew it wouldn’t last.

I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, still wearing the same black sweater. Hadn’t taken it off in three days. Couldn’t wash it. Still smelled like him.

And I miss him.

I stared at the ring on my finger like it was evidence of a crime I couldn’t stop committing.

The bruises he left on my skin had started to fade.

I wished they hadn’t.

Every time I looked and saw less of him on me, panic clawed up my throat. The sick fear that maybe none of it had been real. That I’d imagined the way he fought for me. The way he looked at me like he’d happily become the villain in everyone’s story if he got to be the hero in mine.

It’s stupid. Hiding in my room like a frightened child. Fuck. I can’t just stay hidden away like this.

But, I stayed.

Fingers twisted in his sweater. I wanted to see him so badly it hurt. And I couldn’t make myself move.

A loud, cheerful knock rattled the door. “Hyung,” Sawyer drawled, banging on the door with zero shame. “Open the fuck up before I pick the lock again. I’m not letting my favorite dramatic k-boy starve to death in there. Just don’t be naked, or do. I’m not your mom.” He paused, then added sweetly, “Don’t make me stand out here doing my terrible aegyo. You know I’ll record it and send it to the group chat.”

I hid my face in the sweater.

“Or I could just pick the lock. Your choice, princess.”

I let out a tired, bitter breath and called back without moving. “My reputation is already ruined, thanks. Okay, bye.”

Silence.

Then the distinct, horrifying sound of metal picking at the lock.

“No. What the fuck, Whitlock,” I snapped, sitting up fast. “Don’t you fucking—”

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

Sawyer strolled in, phone in hand. Messy golden hair. That sharp, mischievous grin already in place.

“Too late,” he said cheerfully. “You gave me permission by being difficult. That’s how this friendship works.”

I dragged a hand down my face, exhaustion and irritation warring inside me. “I said bye, not ‘please break into my room like a deranged rich boy with no boundaries.’”