BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Eleven-2

The farther we venture, the darker and colder it becomes. I’m thankful when I see our things a few feet away. Saint lets go of my hand and drops to a squat. I have no idea what he’s doing until he begins to build a circle of large rocks. When he places twigs and leaves into the center, I realize he’s making a fire.

I am so cold, my teeth chatter, so I walk over to my dry pile of clothes. I reach for a yellow sundress, wishing I had a pair of jeans and a warm sweater. Saint’s back is turned, though it wouldn’t matter after everything that happened last night, and I strip, slipping into the dress.

I feel remotely better, but a chill still rocks me. Rubbing my arms, I watch as Saint gets the fire going by skillfully only using sticks. He builds it up, and before long, it’s blistering brightly. I don’t realize I’m still shivering until he stands and reaches into his backpack.

“Here.” He offers me his only remaining long-sleeved shirt. When I hesitate, knowing he’s probably cold too, he unfolds my arms and gently slips it over my head. I help him by lifting my arms and allowing him to dress me.

I’m swimming in it, but it instantly thaws the chill to my bones. “Thank you.”

He nods before stripping out of his T-shirt and standing in front of the fire to dry off. “I’ve left the empty bottles of water and the waterproof box outside to gather as much rainwater as we can.”

The wind rattles around us, and my thoughts instantly drift to Harriet Pot Pie. I hope she’s okay. I sit down on the sleeping bag which Saint has laid out and lean up against the rocky wall. I have no idea how long we’re supposed to wait it out, but being locked away with Saint in such a confined space already has me feeling nervous.

Saint puts on a T-shirt once he’s dry and takes a seat around the fire. I notice him flinch like he did earlier today as he tries to get comfortable, but I don’t have time to question it because the tension between us is suffocating. “How long do you think the storm will last?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Saint shrugs. “I don’t know. The last time we were caught in one, it went on for hours.”

I gulp.

Hours? What are we supposed to do for hours? Saint hardly looks like an I Spy kind of guy.

Drawing my legs toward my chest, I hug my knees, thankful Saint’s shirt is long enough to drag over my legs. I watch him closely, unable to hide my smile when he digs out his tattered sudoku book.

“What?” he asks, c*****g his head to the side.

“Nothing,” I reply, biting back my laughter.

“You have something against sudoku?”

“No.” I raise my hands in mock surrender. “You just don’t look like a math kind of guy.”

“What do I look like then?” he counters quickly. Shame on me for not seeing that coming. I’m not sure if this is a trick question, so I decide to answer honestly.

“You look…pissed off most of the time?” I offer, phrasing it as a question.

His lips twitch. “Fair enough. I suppose that’s because I am,” he confesses coolly.

The air settles.

He sweeps his hand down his body. “You know, I wasn’t always this.”

“This?” I question, unsure what he means.

“The bad guy,” he clarifies. My eyes widen. I was not expecting him to say that. “Before all of this, I was a…college professor.”

I choke on my utter surprise, thumping on my chest to kickstart my heart. I don’t want to make a big deal about it but oh, my god. A professor? Wow, the plot thickens.

“I taught mathematics at Columbia University,” he continues, lost in what seems like another era. “I suppose you could call me a nerd.”

I scoff. Saint and nerd are two words I would never associate together.

“Now I understand the sudoku fascination,” I say evenly, desperate for him to share more.

He stares into the fire. “As mundane as it is, it’s the one thing that anchors me to that life even though it feels like a lifetime ago.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask softly, not wanting to press too hard.

“Two and a half years ago,” he replies blankly; his gaze fixated on the smoldering flames.

I blink once.

For two and a half years, Saint has been confined to this miserable life, one he clearly didn’t choose. He had a good job he obviously enjoyed, but he gave it up to be a hitman. What am I missing?

“Where do you live now?” I’m assuming he no longer lives in America.

“Russia, but that’s not my home,” he replies quickly.

I hug my knees tighter. “Then why do you stay there?”

I’m treading dangerous waters, but this is the most he’s shared with me, and I want to know everything there is about him. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do.” That’s not really an answer, but it confirms my suspicions that he’s doing this because he believes he has no other choice.

“I suppose in some way then, we’re both prisoners,” I say sadly. “So will you go back to America? After your…job is done?” There is no point waiting around in hopes that Saint changes his mind. The job is me as my imprisonment ensures his freedom. No human would forfeit their freedom for the life of a stranger.

He meets my eyes. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I remember Saint confessing he won’t stay when he hands me over to Popov. I’m the key to him getting his life back. At least my captivity will benefit someone.

“Maybe you could go back to teaching?” I suggest, but he scoffs.

“There isn’t much that scares me, but going back to being ‘normal’ is one of the only things that terrifies me.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t that why you’re doing this?”

He reaches for a twig and begins to draw circles absentmindedly in the dirt. “I can’t go back to working nine to five, living in the suburbs, and having barbecues on the weekends.”

“Why not? It sounds like a great life to me.”

Just when I think we’ve reached our quota for talking, he reveals, “Sooner or later, this…darkness within me”—he places a fist over his heart—“will need more. I’ve seen and done so much, I can’t go back to being normal because late at night, when everyone is safe and sound in their beds, everything I’ve done will come back and haunt me, reminding me that there isn’t a ‘normal’ for someone like me. I need the darkness to survive. It’s the only way I can live with what I’ve done.” He lowers his head, his hair shielding his face.

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, ahгел, you’re wrong. No one has wanted to 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’ll die 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.”