Here Lies a Saint (Here Lies #2) - C.L. Matthews Page 0,35

I shouldn't be fawning over guys, but here I am, obsessed with several. Moms calls me boy crazy, Yang, too, but Cass is so protective telling him would make him upset.

"Douchey seems to be my type," I joke, but in reality, it's true. If there was a sticker on the foreheads of the guys who make me smile a little too much, a little too often, it would label them as tools.

He groans and runs a hand through his hair. "You know, I'm sad I asked. You dating anyone isn't something that brings me joy." With a scrunched face, he shakes his head. "How about you stay single for life and be the best aunt?"

Smacking him lightly, I laugh, unable to keep the happiness at bay. "You're such an ass, Cassidy Amos."

"Oooh, I'm in trouble, little sis called me by my middle name."

I smack him again for that comment, and he tickles me.

"Stop it!" I shout, squirming away from him. "Okay, okay!" Another round of tickles and giggles resume. "I'll be an amazing aunt!"

He chuckles with mirth and smiles broadly. "You'll be an amazing anything, Col. I have no doubt."

I wake up to the memory I placed somewhere safe, but I don't smile. It's one of those cherished moments of happiness, which don’t happen, not since Cass is gone. They're as painful as they’re bittersweet.

Knowing he's gone drains me, but knowing I got some of the best moments with him is heartwarming in a way I never knew I needed.

I don't know what time it is. I'm not even sure if it's the same day, the next, or anything more. After Bridger threatened me and left, I passed back out. The need to just release the stress and deprivation out of my system was alarmingly necessary.

Slow but surely, I sit up. My body feels stiff, stuck in a position too long I'm sure. I've cut on so many occasions this isn't exactly a routine I'm unused to.

Hell, I didn't even eat.

Fuck. I didn't eat.

My pills.

Shit.

Trying to push myself, I feel dizzy almost immediately.

"I wouldn't do that," a dark and deep voice sounds out. It's not one I'm used to or one I recognize, but it invites the shivers and goosebumps all the same.

"Who are you?" I question, my voice raspy with sleep and dry from lack of sustenance.

"Don't remember me, kiddo?" The man stands, and fuck, he's tall and broad with hair as dark as the blackest night in Arcadia, short and nearly buzzed. I'm struck stupid at the thought that he's a student or even resident here.

This man is the type of scary that offers nightmares and imagery of him slaughtering people with his fists in his spare time. He's covered in tattoos from what I can see, at least. His throat has an emblem that looks vaguely familiar, vines traveling toward his shirt line.

Sporting a plain white tee, dark fitted jeans with rips, he appears like a hipster, but the age around his eyes, the teardrop piercing, and aggressive frown has me questioning his intentions. There's not a thing familiar about him.

"No, I really don't," I bite. It isn't aggression but more annoyance. What is it with adults thinking they’re special and should be recognized?

"That's too bad," he ponders aloud, bringing a thumb to his lip.

His hands are covered in ink, much like mine. His fingers readout, "Grim." What that means, I'm unsure, but I can't look away. He has a large ring on his other hand. It's covering another tattoo. If a mobster or gangster had a stereotype, it would be this man standing in front of me.

"Is there a reason you're here?" I ask.

Why am I not scared? There’s not a single part of me that fears this man. He’s invading my space, is off-putting, and is flagrantly trying to get something from me. Whether it's information, my life, or something else entirely, he wants something.

He smiles. It's small, almost amused in a larger sense, but it doesn't seem awkward. His smile morphs him from scary to soft, like his appearance is meant to make others fear him, but to those around him, he's meant to just be himself. Ink adds to that personality. Much like me.

"Just wanted to see you before I'm off," he comments. He comes to the bed, crouching so we're eye-level. "Don't trust anyone, luce dei miei occhi."

Italian? Shit. That's one language I never felt the need to understand.

His hand takes a toxic green strand between his fingers, placing it behind my

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