Saint became the nameless man with nothing but ghosts on the internet and skeletons in his closet, and he looked ready to make me into a fricking ghost, thinking I knew his dirty little secrets.
“I mean, I know what everyone is capable of,” I stuttered.
He tilted his head at me in annoyance, murderous glare still in place. I wondered if he was physically capable of anything else.
“I know you’re a tough guy,” I continued, refusing to let him intimidate me. “And tough guys love to convince the world that they are capable of all sorts of horrible things in order to make sure they get whatever they want. Or maybe just to survive. But that’s not a special trait, being capable of anything. We all are. Maybe in the right circumstances. Definitely in the wrong ones.”
I paused, jutting my chin up at him in defiance. “So, am I scared of you because you’ve faced your moment of having to be capable of anything? Sure. I’m not an idiot. I’m not too stubborn to admit it. But fear doesn’t make you special. I’m smart enough to know to have a healthy dose of fear allotted toward everyone I encounter. I’m even less scared of you than I would be a businessman in a nice suit and a good haircut. You wear your sins on your sleeve, Mr. Saint. It’s those who hide them underneath layers of normalcy, they’re the really scary ones.”
He stared at me. For a long time. Murder danced in his gaze. Cruelty. Harsh understanding. Now was the time he would walk off. Out of my life. Now was the time for me to banish him. I’d got what I wanted, hadn’t I? Sex? The start of my story.
But the story wasn’t done, was it?
It was far from done.
And I’d written plenty of books alone. Good books. I didn’t trust myself to finish this one without Saint’s presence. In fact, I couldn’t finish it until I got more from him. And he got more from me.
The wall showed him some things.
A glimpse at my true nature.
But not everything.
I had to give him something else. Something I really fucking wanted.
“I’m ready,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. I was surprised I was able to speak. “For nothing between us.”
His eyes flared.
I sucked in more air to explain why. To tell him how he made me feel safe, even amidst all the danger that surrounded him. How I wanted to be close to him in a way I had with only one other man. I wanted to share what that other man was. Not who he was, what he was. Because, when I did that, he’d understand what this meant.
But he didn’t give me time for that.
For anything.
He snatched the back of my head and yanked my mouth to crash against his. We were teeth, tongues, violence.
Bitter metal filled my mouth. Blood. Whose, I didn’t know. There wasn’t time to decipher. Distinguish.
There wasn’t time for anything but Saint.
Chapter 15
“She was sleeping alone. The man did not stay over. Did not care enough to protect her. That was his mistake. And he made the most of it. Doors unlocked, he slipped in. Her bedroom smelled of sex and whore’s perfume. He didn’t like that. But it was okay. The blood would soon fill up his senses.”
I didn’t know what woke me up. It wasn’t a nightmare. For once. But it was some kind of internal warning system. Though it was a little late since it waited until the person was standing over my bed, watching me sleep until it woke me up.
I didn’t jerk, or scream. Out loud, at least. Everything inside me was screaming, clawing at my insides. Panic clenched my throat, but a clarity settled over me. I couldn’t lose it here. That would achieve nothing.
“What do you want?” My voice was even, calm, controlled.
The figure jerked. I didn’t know if they weren’t expecting me to wake up, or sound so reasonable. Whatever it was, I caught them off guard.
“I’m your biggest fan,” they whispered.
My body tensed.
I’d heard that before.
Of course I’d heard it before. Everyone liked to think they were the most obsessed with the cult of Magnolia Grace. There were summoning parties for the family of Keke Gilead, who were murdered when their daughter summoned the devil. There were spell books, outlining every curse Angela Jericho cast on those that wronged her. People didn’t want my books to die at the end of the last page. So, they created ways to keep them alive.
That didn’t bother me. Not in the slightest. It pleased me. I was hungry to see how far my “biggest fan” would go to prove their dedication.
But at a distance.
This was too close.
Not just literally. But it brushed against something else.
“Can I turn on the light?” I asked, voice still scary cold, calm. “So I can see my biggest fan?”
A pause. I was still adjusting to the lack of light, to an obviously deranged stranger in my space. That meant I didn’t know if he—I was pretty sure it was a he, even though his voice was high, raspy, and feminine—had a weapon or not. My options changed if I assumed he didn’t, and tried to attack him and got myself shot. Or if I assumed he did, didn’t fight back, and got myself raped or murdered.
“Yes,” he said. More like squeaked.
I didn’t hesitate. Light illuminated the room.
No weapon.
Good.
He was pudgy, acne scars pocketing his face. He was wearing a Hill Creek Cemetery tee, one of the most famous settings in my books. People hosted séances at the one that inspired the book so often they had to put up fences and employ full-time armed security guards.
He was wearing stained sweats and had a manic, detached from reality glint to his eye.
So, no weapon, but he was crazy, which was obviously more unpredictable than a gun. At least with a gun, I could snatch it off him. No way would I be able to wrestle the crazy out of him.
“Oh my god, it’s really you,” he breathed.
I pushed myself up in bed and scooted closer to my nightstand, which held my gun, but didn’t make a sudden move for it. My biggest fan was jumpy and had his eyes fastened firmly on me. He was overweight almost to the point of obese, which would mean he might not be quick but he had the ability to overpower me.
“Who else’s house did you think you were breaking into in the middle of the night?” I asked, fury leeching into my voice. Sure, I should’ve been pleasant, agreeable, but I couldn’t find it in me. Anger was what was keeping me going, keeping me calm.
He smiled nervously, like he was coming up to me in a coffee shop, interrupting my muffin. “I knew you’d be mad at the intrusion. But once we got past that, you’d be impressed that I found you. No one on any of the message boards knew where you went. Sure, your social media shows the woods, but that could be anywhere. I knew you needed me. You haven’t posted anything about the book, your publishers released the cover. When that happens, you’re usually on, talking about the characters, teasing. But nothing. You’re blocked. You needed me.”
Oh, sweet Lucifer. “What’s your name?” I asked, scooting even closer to my nightstand. Why in the fuck didn’t I sleep with my gun underneath my pillow?
“Nathan,” he said. “My real name is Jacob, but I had it changed to Nathan after I read End of Knowing.”
“Of course you did,” I muttered. “What else would my biggest fan do but change their name to the main character’s of my least popular book?”