Chapter 2: The Devil Has Rules
408 Words
The warehouse smelled like old wood, oil, and something darker I couldn’t name. It was colder inside than out, but at least I was dry. Or I would be, once my clothes stopped clinging to my skin like regret.
Saint said nothing as he walked ahead, boots echoing through the wide, shadowed space. I followed, half on instinct, half because I didn’t know what else to do.
"Nice place," I muttered.
He paused. "You think this is my home?"
I raised a brow. "Isn’t it?"
He turned slowly. “No. This is where I work. Big difference.”
"And what kind of work happens here exactly?"
He smiled—no warmth, all warning. “The kind people don’t ask questions about.”
Great. I’d officially walked into a crime scene with a man named Saint who looked like sin and talked like death.
He walked to a metal staircase and gestured upward. “There’s a spare room upstairs. Stay the night. Leave by morning.”
"Just like that?" I folded my arms. "No questions about why I’m bleeding or what I’m running from?"
"I don’t care," he said plainly. "But if you bring your mess to my doorstep, I will clean it up my way.”
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the rain.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked, softer now.
He stared at me, long enough that I almost looked away.
"Because you’ve got the eyes of someone who’s already been broken. I don’t mind broken things," he said, his voice low. "They tend to obey."
I flinched, just slightly. He caught it.
"But I don’t obey," I whispered.
He leaned in, and for a second, I thought he might touch me. He didn’t.
"Then you’ll learn."
I didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise.
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The spare room was cold and barely furnished—just a bed, a cracked mirror, and a lamp that flickered when I turned it on. I peeled off my wet clothes and wrapped myself in the old blanket on the bed. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.
But sleep didn’t come easy.
I kept hearing his words on repeat:
“I don’t mind broken things.”
What does that make me?
And what exactly had I stepped into?
Because something told me Saint wasn’t a man you just met.
He was a man you survived.
- Writer
