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A shiver passes over me at the torment lacing his confession. Just what has he done?
“Only God can judge me,” I murmur aloud. Saint’s head snaps up when I unintentionally recite his tattoo. It seems more than fitting. “No matter your past, there is always time to repent.”
“I’m way past salvation.” He’s given me much to think about, and a realization suddenly hits.
“That’s why you don’t like to be touched, isn’t it? You don’t think you’re…worthy of human affection?” I offer, hoping he sheds some light.
He appears haunted by my observation. “No, ah???, you’re wrong. No one haswantedto touch me in two and a half years because who would want to touch a…hitman?”
A winded inhalation escapes me because this is the first time he’s admitted what he is. “You weren’t always a-a hitman.” The word tastes like poison on my tongue, but nonetheless, it feels good, to be honest. “That doesn’t define who you are.”
“Stop it,” he exclaims, tossing the twig into the fire. “Stop seeing me for something that I’m not. I had no qualms about kidnapping you, defiling you”—my cheeks redden—“all because I know that I could. Pain gets me off. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
This comes as no surprise when Saint clearly enjoyed punishing me. But I suppose for two and a half years, he’s only known pain. “That may be true,” I whisper, averting my eyes, “but you’ve also shown me kindness. I refuse to believe you’re all bad.”
“Believe what you want,” he spits defensively. “But when I hand you over to Popov, you’ll soon see how very wrong you are.”
I’ve just seen a new side to Saint. Through his cruelness is a vulnerability that makes me want to comfort him. Yesterday, he allowed me to touch him, confessing that he liked it, so his claims are false. Whatever wall he’s erected was to protect himself from feeling. The only way he can live with what he’s done is to disconnect, which is a sure sign that beneath the darkness is the man he once was. He’s not lost. Not yet.
I rub my arms when a sudden gust of wind rattles the cave walls. The storm is coming, but it can’t compare to the squall within.
We sit in silence, a million thoughts running around my head, and soon, I zone out the punishing weather and focus on everything Saint shared. His existence sounds so lonely. A once well-respected professor turned hitman. It’s as ridiculous as it sounds.
I wonder what he was like all those years ago. Sharing his knowledge with impressionable students and shaping their futures with his teachings. But he threw it all away for this wretched life.
The dots just don’t join.
I begin to hypothesize Zoey’s role in Saint’s life. Is she his girlfriend? Wife? Friend? He did say she was the most important person to him. For him to do what he’s doing, their love must be something incredible as he would do anything to protect her.
My belly begins to twist in knots.
I wonder what it feels like to give and receive that sort of love. I thought what I had with Drew was love, but would I give up everything and sell my soul like Saint has done for him? The answer is no. Maybe that says something about my character, but I have never wanted to end my life to save another.
And that speaks volumes for Saint’s character.
Resting my cheek against my knee, I turn my head to peer at the rocky wall because I suddenly can’t look at him. He wants me to hate him, but I can’t. I should, but I don’t. What does that say about me?
Just when I think things can’t get any bleaker, a terrified clucking catches on the howling wind. Slowly, I raise my head, unsure if I heard the noise or not. When it sounds again, I know that I’m not imagining things.
“Harriet Pot Pie!” I shoot up, making a mad dash for the exit.
I grip the rocks along the sloped wall as the wind is rough, pushing me back as I advance. When I get to the mouth of the cave, I shield my eyes from the heavy downpour, desperate to find Harriet Pot Pie. I see her stuck halfway down the hill, drenched and squawking loudly.
“No!” I cry. Lunging forward, I’m intent on rescuing her, weather be damned. But I’m jarred backward as Saint grips my elbow.
“You can’t go out there!” He has to shout to be heard over the thunder.
“I can’t leave her out there. She’ll die.” I rip free from his hold, determined to do this.
But Saint stops me. “You’lldie if you attempt to go out there.”
And suddenly, it doesn’t matter. What do I have to go back to? “I can’t let her die.” Turning over my shoulder, I allow my tears to shine. “I protect the things I love.”
It’s a double-edged sword because he can relate to this. And if he stops me from saving her, he’s a fucking hypocrite. Harriet Pot Pie may just be a chicken, but she represents so much more. I’m sick of cowering in the face of danger.
“Fuck!” Saint sighs. He’s irritated I’m once again arguing with him, but he shouldn’t expect anything less. “Stay here,” he commands firmly.
Before I can tell him to go to hell, he pushes past me and runs into the brutal storm. My mouth hinges open as I was not expecting that.
