BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Thirteen-1

We need to get off this island. The longer we stay, the greater risk she’s, no, the greater risk they’re both in.

Day 25THE HUT WHICH I once called my sanctuary is no longer. But I suppose if what Saint proposes works, then it’ll be a savior in a different sense. We’ve worked for the past four days solid, dismantling the hut and transporting the wood to the beach.

Saint is on the mend, but he’s still sore. This has delayed our raft building because as strong as I’d like to think I am, we both need to carry one piece of wood at a time, which is taking forever.

He has thankfully allowed me to dress his wound, which definitely looks better. But I know it still hurts. He constantly needs to catch his breath, and I catch him every so often flinching when he twists the wrong way.

But he doesn’t complain. He seems focused on getting off the island and sooner rather than later.

As I stand staring at our materials, I know that was the easy part. Now the hard part is finding something strong enough to tie the wood together with. It seems hopeless, but I’m trying to remain positive.

It’s night, and although I’m gauging how many days have passed by counting the sunsets and sunrises, all days now merge into one. I’m roasting fish over the fire, waiting for Saint to return. He’s adamant he will find something to bind the wood, but hope’s dwindling.

He emerges from the trees empty-handed, looking more than infuriated. I don’t say a word while I serve up our dinner in the coconut shells acting as our makeshift plates.

“Do you want some rum?” he asks.

We’ve been limiting how much we drink because god knows it’s been our only saving grace at night. If we run out, I’m afraid to think of facing the nights here without a rum buzz. “Thanks.”

We go about our usual routine, which is scary to think we’ve been forced into having one at all. When he passes me the coconut shell, I arch a brow. This is a little fuller than usual.

“I have searched high and low, and I can’t find a f*****g thing.” This explains the binge drinking.

I lower my fatigued body onto the sand and am surprised when he sits near me. He usually sits across from me. We eat in silence. After two mouthfuls of fish, I push the shell away from me, unable to stomach another bite.

“I’m so sick of fish,” I confess, placing my hands against my gurgling belly.

“You have to eat. You’re so skinny.”

He’s right. I’ve lost weight since this ordeal started. I have always been small framed with curves, but now, I just look gaunt. “I can’t believe we haven’t seen anyone. How is that even possible?”

“The world is a big place,” he counters.

Usually, I sip my rum, but tonight, I just want to forget where I am. Whether I’m sipping or shooting, the rum tastes horrible, but when a comfortable buzz overtakes me, I want more.

Saint is in the middle of taking a sip when I steal his shell. I can’t help but laugh at his speechless expression. When I finish his as well in one long gulp, I offer him both shells. “Next round’s on me.”

He doesn’t argue and stands to refill our drinks.

The alcohol goes straight to my head, which is what I wanted. I watch the way his angel wings come to life under the moon. They really are beautiful. And when he turns back around, I can’t deny that so is he.

“It means…angel.”

Usually, I would avert my gaze, but the liquor gives me the confidence to lock eyes with him. Something crackles between us. I instantly feel faint, and it has nothing to do with the rum.

“How long do you think we’d survive out here?” I ask, needing to distract myself.

He raises his broad shoulders. “A human can last about three weeks without food.” I blanch at that thought because surely, that can’t be right. “But can only last about three to four days without water.”

“Wow.” I gasp, unable to mask my surprise. He passes me my rum, which I gratefully accept.

“We have enough water for the time being. But the coconuts will eventually run out. And we can’t rely on the rain.”

“How does a former math professor know all this?” I ask in awe of his knowledge. It’s out before I can stop myself as we haven’t discussed his former occupation since he mentioned it nights ago.

I’m expecting him to clam up, but he doesn’t. He smiles and sits down beside me. “I learned quickly how to fend for myself.”

“Did your new profession teach you that?” I question cautiously.

“Yes, ahгел.”

“Oh.” I sip my drink, unsure what to say as I was expecting him to tell me to mind my own business.

I haven’t breached the Zoey topic. So many times, I wanted to share with him how he called out her name when he was sick, but I didn’t. A part of me is scared to know who she is to him.

“Is Saint your real name?” This verbal diarrhea will get me into trouble, but I blame the rum as it’s given me some Dutch courage.

Saint catches me off guard—again. He laughs. The deep, honeyed sound is toxic. “Yes, my real name is Saint. Why?”

I shrug, cheeks billowed as I swallow down my booze. “I dunno. For someone who sure as hell isn’t saintly, it seems like a weird choice.”

Oh, s**t.

Did I say that aloud?

Saint leans back on his hands, a grin tugging at his full lips. “Fair enough.”

“What’s your last name? How old are you?” I can’t help but fire questions at him.

“It’s Hennessy. I’m thirty-three.”

I can imagine all the college girls swooning over their young, attractive professor.

It’s information overload, but the more he shares, the more I want to know. “When is your birthday?”

“November eighteenth.”

“Ahh, Scorpio, that explains a lot,” I reveal, swallowing down my rum. When he waits for me to elaborate, I say, “Part of your psyche resides in a very dark place. You also don’t like people disagreeing with you because you need to be in control. Tick. Tick.” I mimic a giant ticking motion in the air, making Saint smirk.

“But you’re also brave, loyal.” I decide to add because Scorpios are one of the most devoted star signs. “Scorpios are extremely passionate, and when they…fall in love…” I pause as I’m suddenly getting hot. “They are very dedicated and faithful.”

Saint watches me closely, sipping his drink.

I have no idea why I feel the need to share this with him. He doesn’t really seem like the horoscope type. But being able to share this with him is inadvertently telling him how I perceive him.

“And what star sign are you?” he asks, surprising me.

Licking my lips, I answer, “Cancer. My birthday is on June twenty-fourth.”

“So I suppose Cancer and Scorpios are the two signs which constantly argue?” he quips.

I can’t help but laugh. “Actually, no. We are two of the most compatible signs,” I confess, averting my gaze. “It’s been said Cancer can understand the needs of their Scorpio partner to help them express their deepest, darkest emotions in life. When a Scorpio falls in love, trust is the most important thing to them. Cancer just wants someone to share their life with, so they have no reason to lie or cheat.”

“So Cancers are the light, and Scorpios are the darkness?” he questions, which has me lifting my chin slowly.

Locking eyes, I shake my head. “No. They both care too much. They just express that emotion in different ways.” The air suddenly heats, and referring to the signs and not us makes this easier to confess. “They connect emotionally, intellectually, and…physically. Once a bond has been formed…the relationship tends to be long-term.”

Saint seems to ponder everything I just shared.

I’m left dizzy and lightheaded, and it has nothing to do with the rum. Acknowledging this is like looking in the mirror at Saint’s and my relationship. The attraction between us—well, from my end—was instant. He has never lied to me, and when he touched me…my skin blisters at the memory.

I’m drawn to his full lips. They glisten with rum under the moonlight. I wonder what they would taste like. I remember Saint voicing his no kissing rule to the woman he had no qualms f*****g. I wonder if this rule would also apply to me?

“And what star sign was your husband?” The mention of Drew has my drunken brain scoffing instead of mourning our bullshit relationship.

“Gemini,” I reply, curling my lip. “Ironically, one of the worst matches with a Cancer. I should have known not to trust him. The Gemini symbol depicts two entities—a perfect reflection of his two-faced nature.”

Saint appears pleased by my response. “Then why did you marry him?”

There isn’t judgment, only curiosity in his question. “Because I wanted to believe in fairy tales. But I should know by now they don’t exist.” I throw back my drink, relishing in the burn as the rum flows down my throat.

When thinking of what Drew did, an anger surfaces as my sadness has now taken a back seat. “That asshole,” I say with a slight slur. I am way past drunk, but I don’t care. “I can’t believe he used me like that. You must think I’m a f*****g idiot.”

I have just admitted that I believe Saint. The facts all point to Drew selling me like livestock at a farmers’ market. Covering my eyes, I’m suddenly embarrassed. I can’t believe I fell for his bullshit.

But when Saint’s fingers gently remove my hands so he can look into my eyes, a whimper escapes me. “I don’t think that. Not at all.”

“Then what do you think?” I’m crossing a dangerous line, but I don’t care.

“I think…” He pauses, choosing his words wisely. “You’re the most infuriating woman I have ever met.” Well, I was expecting that response. “You’re also the bravest,” he adds, which has me gasping. This is the second time he’s called me brave.

“I also think you like to see the good in everyone.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” I ask softly, leaning closer to him.

He shakes his head. “Not at all. That takes strength not to give up.”

His voice is smooth, and it’s sensory overload as his signature fragrance lingers between us. Being this close to him, I admire the intensity in his eyes, and the magnetic pull, which bounces between us, lures me toward his supple lips.

I shouldn’t want to kiss them, but…I do. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but unlike then, I don’t think I have the strength to pull away. “Whatever happens”—I close the small distance between us, so we’re inches apart—“know that I will never stop trying to find my way back home.”

The air between us is so thick, I almost can’t breathe.

His gaze never wavers from mine as he murmurs, “I know.”

A quiver rocks me low. Who knew two words could hold so much immoral promise? The world begins to spin, and I know it has nothing to do with the rum and everything to do with Saint—the most potent potion of all.

Everything hits me all at once, and no matter how badly I want him, I can’t forget what he did. Who he is. I need to leave. Yanking backward, I attempt to stand, but thanks to my universe being tipped on its axis, I only end up tumbling forward. On instinct, I reach for the first solid thing within reach, which just happens to be Saint’s bicep.

Memories smash into me of when we first met because just like then, I grabbed him, hoping he could anchor me. “Sorry,” I pant, trying to pull away, but his hand snaps out and overlaps mine.

Peering down at our connection, I try to fight this wickedness within, but when a lopsided smirk tugs at his lips, I am helpless to the temptation. Letting go, I will deal with the self-hate and consequences later, and I surrender…to the darkness.

The moment I press my lips to Saint’s, I know there is no turning back. He freezes, eyes wide, as he’s just as surprised as I am, but he doesn’t pull away. His mouth is warm, soft, and it instantly thaws out the chill to my soul.