What fascinated me was the fact she obviously painted it for him. There was no question about that. Though, she’d never mentioned she was close enough with Saint to know what to paint for him. To paint him.
I had been sure she was an open book. Full of secrets she was ready to share. But not everything. Not other people’s, it seemed.
That was the most exceptional painting in the room. The rest were dark, manly prints. He had two plush chairs pointed toward French doors that opened onto a balcony. Once I opened it, my body recoiled at the cold with no barrier to protect it. I still didn’t cover up. Instead, I stepped out, my bare feet shocked at the frigid wood. He had a view of the same lake as me. But it looked different from up here. It looked like a place I could just stare at. Curl up on one of those chairs with whisky and my laptop and write.
There was a menace in the air here. Something even I couldn’t bring into my house. Emily’s house.
I had the pad and pencil in my hand without even knowing where I got it from. I barely knew what I was writing. But my hand cramped once I’d filled the pad up, my bare skin numb as I’d forgotten to close the doors, curled up, writing longhand. It had been a long time since I’d had such a violent uncontrollable urge to write that I all but blacked out and came to with a scramble of thoughts that would turn into a story. I’d taken that for granted in the beginning. That frantic, insane tidal wave of words that would spew out onto the closest surface. The lost hours. The sleep, food, and human interaction that didn’t seem important.
It wasn’t a small thing I’d gotten that insanity back after having a nightmare about the dead owner of my house, waking up in Saint’s bed, covered in his scent, thighs bruised from his touch.
No point in thinking of that too hard. Not now.
I didn’t look at the pad. The voices whispering upward. No, they would wait. I needed distance from them. I found my jeans, discarded on the floor, and stuffed the stack of paper in one of the pockets.
They stayed on the floor, though. I liked the way they looked there. Something of mine messing up Saint’s orderly room.
So instead of dressing in my own clothes, I rifled through his drawers until I found a Henley and some socks. I didn’t snoop, though I itched to. I loved the idea of being able to sift through his things, find out if there were any secrets lurking in his underwear drawer. Though I doubted it. Saint was definitely not stupid enough to leave such things lying around, even in his extremely isolated home.
I did learn that all of his clothes were neatly folded, drawers ordered. Again, I took great care in creating chaos, messing up the shirts and underwear, stuffing the drawer closed like I did in my own home.
I liked tidy, clean, sure. But I loved the mess underneath.
He hadn’t come to find me in the time I’d been awake. And I’d been puttering around for a long time. He hadn’t watched me sleep, cuddled me. None of that romantic stuff.
Thank god.
A faint clanging from where I guessed was the kitchen, along with a tempting smell, had me leaving the bedroom with a curious mind and a growling stomach.
To be fair, the sex was workout enough, not to mention I’d done my usual routine earlier today. My ankle stopped me from body weight cardio, but I managed to work up a sweat.
I didn’t bother trying to find my panties. What was the point? I liked the idea of wandering around his house with nothing covering me. It was dirty. I liked that. It was the first time I liked the feeling of exposure, of sexual filth. Then again, I didn’t know there was any satisfaction to come with such a feeling.
He had an en suite off his bedroom. Large. Much larger than mine.
And nice too.
Really freaking nice. Black tiles, black fixtures. A huge walk-in shower that had me almost salivating. A floor-to-ceiling window, no blinds, looking over a never-ending forest.
The house itself was dated. Not in a stylistic way, but in a way that told me it had been here a long time. Long enough for the forest to start to swallow it. But these changes were new. Top of the line. With a taste that the simple designer of the original house hadn’t had.
While using the facilities, I wondered how long Saint had been here. No one had mentioned it. He hadn’t offered the information, I hadn’t asked. He’d come here after leaving a deadly gang. I guessed he didn’t grow up here because that would make him far too easy to trace. I didn’t know what he did with his days. How he afforded all of these expensive luxuries.
He was a stranger to the locals but they knew him well enough. As well as a man like this could be known. They knew to keep away from him. Not to bring muffins or pies. No welcome party.
Wandering back down to the hall, there were more dark tones. The day was turning into night; little natural night leaked in, making the hallway full of shadows. Sure, I could’ve turned on the lights, but I liked the shadows.
The smell intensified as I walked closer to the front of the house. All the doors leading off the hallway were closed. I wondered if that was because I was here. Opening one at random, no dead body tumbled out, there wasn’t a girl bound and gagged, begging for help.
It was small library. The smell of books got me first. Old. Damp, almost. Every single wall was covered in bookshelves. They were all full. In the middle of the room was a large, L-shaped leather sofa, facing more unobstructed views of the lake. I ached to pour over the spines of his books, figure him out. Dive in. But I would get lost in it.
Plus, this was merely research. A scouting mission.
I closed the door and went down the stairs.
They were open, so I could look down to the living room and kitchen. Both were huge.
Sex mingled with the smell of herbs and butter.
I liked it a lot.
As I’d been distracted earlier, I hadn’t taken this in. And taking it in from above, it was really something. Everything was purposeful. Sofas, curved together facing a fireplace, a TV above it. A large rug underneath a coffee table. Rugs everywhere, actually, enough to make the room warm, but not enough to cover up the hardwood floors. They gleamed.
Just like the tiles in his bathroom had. You could theoretically lick off those floors. Though I would rather give myself a tattoo with a blunt knife and old ink than do that. My stomach was strong with every gruesome sight that could be conceived. I ate my breakfast while staring at Emily’s crime scene photos this very morning.
But toilets, clean or not…the mere thought of putting my face near one, my stomach roiled at the thought of it. While I didn’t watch much TV as a rule, every time I saw some idiot curled around a toilet, I all but threw the television out the nearest window.
But I was comforted at how clean the bathroom was. Bleach wafted off everything, stinging my nose and pleasing my soul. It was the same everywhere. Not a speck of dust.
I doubted Saint invited someone over to clean, since the whole point of this place was off the grid, which meant he must’ve had serious OCD. It didn’t jive with everything else. Or maybe it did. The man was obsessed with control.
But not so obsessed he wasn’t able to be beat with a good amount of fight. My muscles protesting walking down the stairs proved that.
The kitchen was just as impressive as the living room. Large. Fancy-looking stove. Kitchen island. Saint in low slung sweats and a tight wife beater cooking in it. Yeah, it was impressive.
As was the view from the glass windows. A huge patio area. Fire pit. Grill. Flowerboxes. A greenhouse to the side.