BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Eleven-3

It’s a double-edged sword because he can relate to this. And if he stops me from saving her, he’s a f*****g 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.

“f**k!” 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.

“Saint, no!” This is my battle, not his. But it’s too late. I watch as he runs down the hill, using his forearm to protect his face from the ruthless weather. The rain has obscured his form, so I lean forward to get a better look.

I can barely see a thing, but after what feels like minutes, when a lightning bolt sparks the atmosphere to life, I sag against the rocks in relief. Saint has reached Harriet Pot Pie. He tucks her under his arm and makes a mad dash up the hill.

My heart is in my throat as the terrain is slick with mud, and it’s obvious he’s having difficulty climbing it when he loses his footing and slips. Without thought, I run into the rain, intent on offering him my hand, but he screams at me to stay where I am.

I quickly retreat, using the rocky ledge above me as shelter. I shift from foot to foot, anxiously awaiting Saint to finish the climb. The heavens have really opened up, and it seems to take him twice as long getting back up.

When he’s yards away, I exhale because, within moments, he’ll be safe. But it appears fate doesn’t like that outcome. From out of nowhere, a lightning bolt rocks the entire island. I feel the electricity all the way to my toes.

“Hurry up!” I shout because suddenly, every hair on my body stands on end.

I don’t have time to question it because before I know it, a fierce cracking and an ominous shadow have me screaming and stabbing the air with my finger. “Watch out!” Saint turns over his shoulder, but it’s too late.

Everything happens in slow motion.

He throws Harriet Pot Pie to safety, and in turn, he sacrifices his own because an enormous branch has snapped from a towering tree and strikes him down. The noise is sickening, but the sight of him trapped under the branch has me kicking up mud as I run toward him.

“Saint!” But he doesn’t move.

I slip and slide as my tennis shoes have no grip, but I’m working on pure adrenaline and get to him within seconds. He’s on his stomach. The thick branch crushing him into the soggy terrain. When I see blood on the back of his head, I know I only have minutes to set him free because he’s unconscious.

Lightning and thunder work in unison, hinting I could be lying beside Saint if I don’t hurry up. The branch fell across his back, and I try to move it off him, but it’s heavy and doesn’t budge. “Come on!” I yell as failing isn’t an option.

I yank with all my might, but the waterlogged ground causes me to lose my footing. The rain continues to fall, sinking Saint into the saturated soil. I drop to my knees to check his pulse. When I feel the faint rhythm, I sob in relief.

“I’m sorry!” I cry to his still form because he wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for me. That thought causes a surge of energy to course through me. I bend my knees, engage my core, and use all my strength to lift. A guttural scream leaves me.

It’s amazing what the human body is capable of because, before I know it, I’ve moved the branch a fraction. It’s still not enough to free Saint, so I repeat my actions, tapping into strength I didn’t even know I had. A roar slashes through the air as I deplete whatever energy I have, but it’s well worth it when I’m able to move the branch and set Saint free.

I did it!

But I can celebrate later.

Saint is out cold, so just as he did for me when he swam me to safety, I now have to do the same for him. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I drop to my knees and roll him onto his back. Mud cakes his face, and the sight kicks me in the solar plexus, winding me.

Pulling it together, I look over my shoulder at the cave. It’s not too far away, and the path is relatively clear, so without a choice, I grip his wrists and begin hauling him toward safety. He weighs more than the branch, but I continue to drag him, trying my best to avoid boulders and the rough ground.

I’m breathless, and my arms and legs are aching, and I lose my footing a handful of times, but I finally maneuver Saint into the cave. Tugging him toward the fire is going to be a lot harder in here with all the rocks, so I drag him as far as I can.

I sprint toward the sleeping bag and first-aid kit and am back at Saint’s side in seconds. I drop to my knees and place a hand in front of his mouth. He’s still breathing. I work frantically, rolling up the sleeping bag to place under his head gently as I roll him into the recovery position. When my hands come away with blood, I know the gash on his head is still bleeding.

I work madly, using whatever I can find in the first-aid kit to help clean the wound. When it stops bleeding after a few minutes, I sag in relief. All I can do is monitor him and hope he wakes soon, seeing as calling 911 isn’t an option.

I sit beside him, brushing away the matted hair from his forehead and cleaning the dirt from his face. Each stroke wipes away the filth, and I wish it was that easy to wash away the sins on his soul. This is the first time I’ve touched his face, and being this close to him, I can’t help but admire his strength.

My fingers linger over his cheeks and down through the soft stubble on his jaw. Touching him this way has something softening inside me. I can’t believe he risked his safety for Harriet Pot Pie and…me.

He knew I would have gone down there to save her, but instead, he did, and now he lies here, unconscious and hurt. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, running my fingers through his soft hair. “Please wake up.”

The idea of being stuck here alone sends my blood cold, but that’s not the issue invading my every thought. If Saint dies…I shake my head violently, needing to dispel such nonsense. What would it say for my self-respect if I confessed Saint’s death would hurt…a lot?

A tear slides down my cheek.

“Ahгел?” I yelp but cry out in relief when I see his eyes flickering.

“I’m here. Let me help you.” He doesn’t argue, and I slowly help him turn onto his back, adjusting the sleeping bag. “You’ve hit your head,” I explain. His eyes are still sealed shut.

“Tired,” he pushes out breathlessly.

“Can you open your eyes?” He has a head injury, and even though he’s tired, I don’t think he should sleep.

“Will in a minute,” he sleepily says.

“Saint…”

“Sleep,” he interrupts. It appears his bossiness knows no bounds—conscious or unconscious. The fact he’s talking and knows who I am are good signs. I will just watch him like a hawk.

I attempt to move, but he leaves me speechless when he reaches for my hand and links his fingers through mine. With my mouth agape, I peer down at our union. It looks so foreign, yet it doesn’t.

“The chicken?” he drowsily asks. Harriet Pot Pies clucks.

“She’s, she’s okay,” I reply, my words slow as I can’t believe he reached for me.

Saint’s heavy breathing indicates he’s fallen asleep, but his grip never wavers from mine.

Saint has slept for what feels like hours. I’ve watched him the entire time, ensuring he’s warm and comfortable.

I got as snug as I could, but the fact he wouldn’t let my hand go had me contorting my body so I could lean against the wall. I sat watching him, studying this mysterious man like I’d just stumbled across a new species.

I don’t understand him. I never have. But I can’t deny that his actions tonight have done something to me. I have always felt some inexplicable connection to him, but now, it feels different. It feels like something has changed.

I have never met anyone like him before. He is dark and brooding and most definitely not one of the good guys, so why does he continue doing virtuous things? Yes, he’s a downright asshole most of the time, but when he’s not, he’s something…else.

I want to know him, all of him because I don’t understand the feelings he evokes in me. I am losing myself, piece by piece, to Saint, and I don’t even care.

Sighing, I stretch my neck from side to side as my entire body aches. I don’t want to wake him, but the fact he’s been out cold for so long worries me. Running my thumb over the back of his knuckles lightly, I whisper, “Saint, wake up.”

No response.

“Saint,” I say, a little louder this time, but still, nothing.

Panic seizes me, and I gently brush the hair from his brow. When I do, however, I yank my hand back because he’s burning up. “Saint! Can you hear me?”

Oh, god. Nothing.

I feel for a pulse and find a shallow and weak one. His skin almost burns mine when I touch his cheeks. He has a fever. I don’t understand how that’s possible. I didn’t see any cuts on his body which were infected. Maybe it’s a virus? He didn’t complain about feeling unwell.

Hunting through the first-aid kit, I reach for some Tylenol and a bottle of water. He is out cold, so I have no idea how I’m going to administer this. I decide to crush it up and mix it in with the water. “Saint, I need you to open your eyes.”

His unresponsiveness has my heart racing.

When he doesn’t move, I position myself behind him and prop him up so he’s half sitting. He’s floppy, so I’m sure to be quick as I settle in behind him and cradle his dead weight against my chest. Reaching over his shoulder, I press the bottle to his lips.

“Drink. Please.”

His T-shirt is stuck to him, and I wonder if it’s the rain or sweat because the heat coming from his body is almost unbearable. When the water trickles down his lips, I know this is useless. I can’t force it down his throat in fear he’ll choke to death.

I can’t believe this is happening.

I manage to maneuver him onto his back and take vigil by his side. “Please don’t die,” I whisper, reaching for his hand.

“Zoey…”

I freeze, unsure what to say or do. In his delirious state, he is calling for her.

I quash down these feelings which resemble jealousy because they have no right to be there.

“Shh,” I coo, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.” He stops talking and drifts back off into his delirium. Harriet Pot Pie sits near me, and we both guard our savior.

The storm continues to rumble around us, and all I can do is sit and wait—both for the storm and Saint.