At the sight of her, an overload of feelings course through me. Drowning in the hatred, shock, and—fuck-me-standing—the instant, electrifying lust doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibilities.
Forcefully swallowing my enmity, I try to sound unaffected. Showing my hand will only fuck up this mission before it even starts.
“Hello, Sin,” I manage. My tone sounds almost civil, which is so at odds with the turmoil inside me.
“Hello, Saint,” she replies, obviously as upset as I am.
CHAPTER 4
Sin
As I navigate the throngs of people on Rue des Rosiers, my head spins.
Saint Bellinger is here.
In Paris.
Apparently, he’s now also a part of my team.
I never thought I’d see him again. Well, that’s not true. The thought he might hunt me down after his release from prison had crossed my mind. Hell, I’d had plenty of nightmares about it.
After all, I’m the one who put him there.
As I pass by the kosher market, it triggers a reminder that I have no food in my house. But between the stress of the day and the headache it gave me, I decide those are reasons enough to bypass it. I’ll manage with a dinner of tea and toast tonight.
Half a block down, I approach a green door in the side alley of a trendy clothing boutique. The stairs inside lead up to the two apartments housed above it. Rue des Rosiers is in the heart of the Jewish quarter—unofficially called the Pletzl, which is Yiddish for little place—but in recent years, the quaint shops have been replaced by gleaming fashion showrooms.
When I realized I’d have to be based in Paris for an unknown amount of time because of my predicament with Julian Mercier, I’d found this place on Airbnb. Luckily, I was able to negotiate a month-to-month lease with the hosts. The exterior door has an electronic keypad. Once I enter the four-digit code, I hurry inside, push the door so it’ll shut behind me, then take the stairs two at a time.
I’m halfway up when I realize I hadn’t heard the door latch or the lock engage. I pivot to make my way down but then release an involuntary yip of fright when I find Saint only two steps behind me.
His face is darkly thunderous. I should have known this was going to happen. During Saint’s introduction to the rest of the team, my spine had tingled with the awareness that the cool and polite mask he wore was a façade. Underneath it, I’d sensed waves of pent-up anger and hostility. I was under no illusion I’d be able to escape a confrontation with him.
Just didn’t think it would happen so soon.
The door finally shuts, cutting off any help the people on the street may have offered if I’d thought to call out. But that becomes a moot point when Saint’s masculine hand wraps around my throat. He squeezes, clearly managing to hold on to a sliver of restraint. Because while he’s physically backing me up the staircase by his grip, it’s only uncomfortable as hell instead of the snapped neck he’s more than capable of doling out.
His normally warm, expressive brown eyes are nearly black with rage and his teeth are bared. When my foot hits the top landing, he backs me right into the wall between the two apartment doors—mine on the left, and the neighbor I’ve never seen on the right.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he snarls, his face only inches away from mine.
I should be relieved his grip on my throat is loose enough to suck in a bit of air, but I can’t because he’s apparently got murder on his mind.
“Because you don’t want to go back to prison…” I let the first words that pop into my mind wheeze out.
I realize it’s a mistake as soon as I say it. His face drains of color before flushing red with fury. “You already put me there once. You cost me everything.”
Sure, it’s antagonistic, but maybe I can make him see reason. “It was for less than two years, Saint.”
He tightens his fingers around my throat, and a bolt of fear punches through me. His voice comes out in a barely audible hiss. “My mother died while I was in prison. I never got to see her before she went. She died a horrible death, all alone, because of you.”
Jesus.
Oh, shit.
No.
Saint’s mom was everything to him. The reason he did what he did.
Tears well up in my eyes, not because I’m afraid of him or for myself, but for what I cost him. It was one thing to live with the guilt of betraying him, thinking a little jail time was nothing compared to certain death.
And make no mistake… Saint was going to die that night if I hadn’t done something.
But to know his mom died alone while he’d been stuck behind bars… it’s more than I can bear.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak, my tears freely overflowing. I’ve never been much of a crier. My dad always ordered me to toughen up.
But this is Saint.
And I had genuinely cared about him.
“You should be sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand around my neck loosens slightly. “I want to know why you did it, Sin. Why did you do that to me? If your answer’s good enough, it might save you.”
The notion of being saved amuses me. A completely inappropriate laugh slips out and Saint’s eyes flash with fury.
“I was saving you,” I cry, deciding to lay it all out there. I have nothing to lose, but I could be saving my own life in the process.
Taken aback, Saint jerks, releasing my throat. “Saving me?”
We eye each other until I finally ask, “Would you like to come in for some tea? I’ll explain everything.”
“Christ,” Saint mutters, taking a step away from me. His gaze goes to the wall before dropping to the floor. Clearly frustrated, he rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s longer than I remember, but still beautifully thick and wavy. There was a time when my fingers spent a lot of time buried in the soft strands.
He focuses on me, expression overly suspicious. “The last thing in the world I want to do is have tea or anything else with you. Just tell me what you meant when you said you were saving me.”
“Neal was going to kill you,” I say simply, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
This doesn’t seem to surprise Saint, but he asks, “When? Why?”
“Because he’s an asshole,” I reply, frustrated. “Or… possibly a sociopath. Because he was jealous you’d beat us to some good hauls in the past, or maybe he was lying. But he hated you. Surely you know that, right? I don’t bloody well know the exact reason, so take your pick. When we were getting ready for the Lewiston job, I overheard him talking to Sticky. He said he was going to remove you from the picture for good that night.”
“That could have meant—”
I cut him off. “Then Sticky asked him what he meant by that, and Neal calmly said it meant a bullet in your head before dumping your body in the river.”
The memory is as clear as if it happened two minutes ago rather than three years ago. We’d been pulling off a car heist—a 55 Jaguar D-type—and Saint and I had been assigned to the inside work. That meant we were responsible for getting in the garage undetected, hot wiring the vehicle, and driving it a short distance to a tractor-trailer transport. This had been more complicated than it seemed as the owners stored it in their personal garage with an elaborate security system and they never—and I mean never—went anywhere. They were always there, so we had to concoct a devious scheme to get them out of the house.