BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Eight-1

She saved my f*****g life. This strong, brave, courageous woman saved my life. She had every right to let me drown, but she didn’t. She threw me a life vest, took the wheel, and showed us all who had the bigger balls.

But the problem is…where the f**k are we?

Day 10I CAN’T BREATHE.

Water fills my lungs, and no matter how hard I try to break the surface, I continue sinking. My muscles ache. I kick my legs and use my arms, but it’s useless, and eventually, I surrender to the darkness. Everything falls quiet, and I await the tender embrace of death. It’s a relief, in a sense, because what do I have waiting for me? My husband is possibly not the man I thought him to be, and after everything I’ve seen and done these past ten days, how can I go home and pretend none of it happened?

My heart begins to slow, and I don’t fight it. Once upon a time when I believed in God, I would expect my father to be waiting for me in front of those pearly white gates, welcoming me home. But after everything I’ve been through, it’s safe to say I’m on my own.

I close my eyes, surrounded by peace…finally. There is no more pain. No more tears. But more importantly, no more shame for wanting a man who I shouldn’t. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” His words shouldn’t hold such comfort, but they do. “We’re almost there.”

But I push them aside and focus on floating away.

Abruptly, however, the silence shatters as those chartreuse swirls come to life before me, and those sinful lips utter a name.

Ahгел.

My body constricts, and everything warms as a spicy sweet taste lingers on my tongue. “Breathe, ahгел.”

Those two simple words are like an electric shock to my heart. The darkness soon becomes light as the air in my lungs is from the lifeforce Saint breathes into me. He’s bringing me back to life.

“That’s it.” I follow his voice and wade through the stagnation before I surface and free myself from the manacles weighing me down.

My first sense of awareness comes when I gag on the saltiness from coughing up water to free my airways so I can breathe. The second thing that hits me is that I’m lying on rocks and sand. And lastly, I’m here with Saint. But the question is, where is here?

Electrocuted back to life, I spring up, coughing madly as I wheeze for air. It’s sensory overload as I attempt to uncover where I am. My head snaps from left to right to gauge my surroundings, but I have no idea where we are.

From looks alone, it appears we’re on an island and a deserted one at that. Dense greenery surrounds us. There are no hotels. No jetties. No people. Nothing.

It’s dark out, but dawn is lingering. A new beginning is close by. When I clear the fog, I immediately search for Saint. I don’t have far to look. He’s crouched by my side, running a hand through his wet hair.

A life vest and a first-aid kit sit a few feet away—the one I tossed his way before I…oh, god.

The last thing I remember was sinking our boat. I didn’t think it would work, but clearly, it did because here I am, surrounded by…nothing.

“Wh”—I clear my raspy throat—“where are we?” It hurts to speak. Actually, I ache all over. On instinct, I rub the back of my head. When I feel the grapefruit-sized lump, I groan.

Saint leaves his hand atop his head, clutching the strands. “I don’t know,” he replies, stumped. “I don’t know how long I was asleep before…” He doesn’t need to elaborate. “When we capsized, you hit your head. Your life vest came off, so you were sinking.

“I pulled you to safety. You were out cold, so I swam.” Swam? If I was out cold, that means he was my arms, legs, my heart. “I don’t know how long for, but after what felt like half an hour or so, I saw land. But the waters turned rough again. We got swept up in a wave and were separated, but when I finally found you, you were drowning. You had stopped breathing.”

Thinking back to feeling weightless, I now know it was because I was drowning, but the fact that I’m here now confirms I was saved—by Saint.

“Thankfully, the wave pushed us toward land and well”—he sweeps his hand outward—“here we are.”

“What about the rest of the men?”

Saint raises his shoulders in an untroubled shrug. “They all got what was owed to them.”

The thought of our attackers has me remembering Saint’s wound. Without thought, I reach out and attempt to shift his soggy shirt aside so I can see his wound. On instinct, however, his hand shoots out and grips my wrist to stop me.

Peering up at him, I question, “It’s okay for you to touch me, but it’s not okay for me to touch you?” It’s no secret that Saint shies away from being touched, but considering we almost died, I thought things would be different.

I don’t pull out of his hold, but instead, I deadpan him. The dynamics have changed. We are both prisoners, prisoners to this forsaken island. Saint clenches his jaw, but he eventually loosens his grip. I don’t make a fuss because even though it feels good to take back a small piece of my independence, I don’t want to push my luck.

Our situation may have changed, but that doesn’t mean Saint will have turned into a soft, cuddly teddy bear. I only have to think about what he did to those men to remember, stranded or not, he’s still a hitman, and I’m still here against my will.

His shirt is torn, so I move it aside gently to see the gaping, weeping wound is still very much there. “How are you still alive?” I say more to myself than to him.

“It’s just a scratch.” He plays it off, but the hiss that escapes him when I gently prod around the gash reveals he’s in pain.

“Let me see what’s in the first-aid kit.” Even though I was out cold, I’m glad I had the good sense to clutch onto the kit because it’ll come in handy as god knows what lurks in the thick jungle.

My legs are shaky, but I come to a slow stand and hobble to the kit. I should be thankful I’m walking at all, seeing as I would be dead if it wasn’t for Saint. The fact I was out cold means he swam me to safety even though he was injured. It would have been easier for him to let me drown as I can imagine he could barely swim for one person, let alone two.

So helping him is the least I can do.

“Take off your shirt,” I instruct, walking back over to where he sits. He doesn’t argue and slips it over his head.

Even under the veil of darkness, his ripped body comes to life. But I focus on what’s inside the kit as I open it up. Tylenol, alcohol wipes, bandages, gauze, and some sort of ointment. When I see a sewing kit, a knife, and a gun, my stomach drops.

This isn’t your standard first-aid kit. It’s the essential go-to for every hitman.

Dropping to my knees, I place the kit on the sand beside me and tear open the packet of wipes. I don’t bother with a countdown and begin to clean the area gently. The jagged flesh will no doubt leave a scar, but what’s one more as his body is covered in them.

I silently wipe the wound, using a new wipe to disinfect the area as best I can. His eyes watch my every move; I can feel them. The scrutiny has my fingers shaking, but I pull it together because for what I propose next, I will need a steady hand.

“I need to close it up. A simple Band-Aid won’t fix this.”

Gazing up at him from under my lashes, I wait for him to reply. The air is charged as I’m asking him to trust me to sew him back up. Beads of water coat his golden skin, collecting in the dark hair on his chest. My eyes leisurely drift to the barbell in his n****e. I’ve never really been a fan of ink or piercings, but having both within inches of me, I am suddenly a convert.

“Okay,” he finally says, his low voice adding to my nerves.

“Can you lean back a little? I need to get the skin as tight as possible.” He does as I ask, leaning back on his arms. The expanse of his torso has me wetting my lips because everything undulates as he shifts to get comfortable.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confess, unwrapping the sewing kit. When I see the needle and thread, my hands begin to sweat. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

“I’m already ruined, so what’s one more scar?” he confesses, surprising me. I wouldn’t refer to the sight before me as ruined. Each scar tells a story, showing the world you were stronger than whatever tried to beat you.

I don’t voice that aloud, though, as I attempt to thread the black yarn through the eye of the needle. My trembling fingers display my nerves, but Saint doesn’t move. He simply sits back and waits. After countless attempts, I finally get it through.

Now the hard part. I can’t imagine this will feel good. No matter how I go about it, it’s going to hurt like a b***h. Swallowing down my fear, I wipe down the needle with the disinfectant and exhale loudly.

“If you need me to stop, just tell me.” I meet his eyes, unable to read what flickers behind his.

“I won’t,” he replies firmly. He isn’t trying to be tough. It’s clear he’s done this before so a breather won’t be necessary.

With that as my green light, I position myself as best I can, count to three in my head, then pierce his skin with the needle and thread. I cringe at the absolutely disgusting sight, but I continue threading the thread through.

When I come back down and pierce his skin again, my stomach begins to turn. He flinches as my hand is unsteady, and I accidentally tug hard. “Sorry,” I say, easing the pressure. “I haven’t done this before. Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing fine,” Saint replies coolly. I’m in awe of his composure.

With his assurance, I continue sewing him up, ensuring each stitch is close together. The gash is a decent size, so I want to close it up properly. His breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling irregularly. He’s in pain, but he stays true to his word and doesn’t ask me to stop.

When I’m halfway done, my nerves begin to settle as the wound has stopped bleeding. “Who did this to you?”

I need to fill the silence because the sound of sewing Saint’s flesh together has my stomach turning once again.

“Kazimir,” he replies, a hitch to his breath as I jerk when I hear his name.

“How do, did”—I correct—“you know him?”

I don’t expect him to answer, but maybe talking takes his mind off what I’m doing as well. “He has worked for Popov for years.”

“And you haven’t?” I risk asking, unsure how or if he’ll reply.

But he surprises me. “No.”

“How long have you been Popov’s…hitman?” Curiosity overrides common sense, and I chance a glance at Saint. I want him to know I haven’t forgotten their conversation before the s**t hit the fan.

He slouches back, impassive to my question. “Why do you want to know this?”

I pause from sewing him up, startled he asked me this. “Because I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I don’t understand anything.”

“I’m doing this because that’s what someone like me does. I’m not a good man, so don’t try to find redeeming qualities about me. There are none,” he spits. But I don’t believe him. I wouldn’t be here if what he says is true.

I continue stitching him up, my mind racing. I know it’s my funeral, but I need to know. “Who…who is Zoey?” I whisper, biting my lip as I know how this will end.

Her name is the only thing with the ability to make him grunt out in pain. He grips my fingers tightly. “We’re done.” I don’t know if he’s referring to the stitches or the conversation. Either way, he recoils from my hand and ties a knot in the thread himself. It appears I’m finished playing nurse.

Thankfully, I am done sewing him up.

He snares a gauze pad from the first-aid kit and rips it open. He is clearly angry with me for asking him what I did, which just makes me all the more curious. He slaps the gauze over his wound, sticking it down so it’s covered.