war.
I wondered if that was the reason Saint chose his place, because he knew this day would come eventually.
“I can handle myself,” I said to Saint. “I’m not going to throw up, scream, or cry in the face of anything. But I’m also quite attached to living, and I’m attached to you living also. And I know despite the fact you argue against the white knight status, which I’ll never label you as, you’ll definitely try to act like one, in the way you’ll do something stupid, like get yourself killed, trying to stop your buddies from murdering me. What I’m trying to say is, I’ll not take up arms or get on the front line, but I’ll not run away either.”
I stepped forward, surprising myself by grasping his face with my hands. “You’re here. This is your home. You’re standing your ground. And though I didn’t expect it, this is my home too. I like it here, so I don’t want it burned down by some rogue biker crew. So, we’ll plan, together.” I raised my brow at him. “Because if you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty well prepared for the situation. Theoretically speaking, at least. You’ll check in with me in increments, depending on how this shakes out. But I don’t hear from you within fifteen minutes of our previously agreed increments, I’ll turn narc, call the cops. I don’t even care.”
I only stopped talking only because his fingers fastened over my lips in a silencing gesture that should’ve turned me off but it was really fucking endearing.
“First, it’s really fuckin’ sexy when you get assertive,” he murmured. “Second, never heard you talk for that long about concern for someone else. Me.”
I scowled. “Well don’t get a big head over it. I just don’t want you to die.’
“Well, neither do I. So, I’ll try my best. Though, can’t make any promises.”
“No,” I agreed.
I didn’t admit how much that terrified me.
Of course Saint wasn’t happy with me staying at my place, but with its history, I figured we were well overdue for some good luck. And no way was he shipping me off to some hotel room, miles away from the action. Too insulated.
I was staying right here. I wasn’t lying when I told him this place was my home and that I planned on standing my ground. Despite all my certainties about needing the city, the hustle, the hatred of small-town friendliness, I belonged. Almost.
And almost for someone like me was pretty fucking close.
Sure, Saint played a part. But he wasn’t the reason. I might’ve blown up a lot of my personal promises in regards to relationships being more than sex, and keeping my black heart closed forever, but I wasn’t going to collapse my entire self for a man. No, that was never going to be me. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here. Saint would live forever in the book, in my nightmares, and not much else.
I was here because I wanted to be. Because the dark, cold, unforgiving, and slightly homicidal woods calmed me. Because I played poker with Ernie on Tuesdays. Because Margot was interesting, fucked up, and hardassed, but also knew how to make some great muffins. Because Deacon was a good bartender and not terrible company.
And apparently, he’d be my company for the foreseeable future. Which had surprised me when he’d pulled up and Saint hadn’t done anything fueled by testosterone.
Then he’d left.
No goodbyes. No declarations of love. Nothing bullshit like that. Just a harsh kiss, a long look, and that was it.
I wasn’t nervous.
I should’ve been.
Should’ve been pacing. Panicking.
Or at least that’s the cliché storyline.
The writer in me should’ve at least have been conjuring up plots, should’ve been imagining the worst-case scenario. The grizzliest, bloodiest, worst case scenario. I was definitely practiced at that.
But I didn’t do that.
It was out of my control. Saint checked in. In his increments. He could handle himself. Or he couldn’t.
“You sure this is where you want to be?” I asked Deacon, looking up from my laptop. It turned out this whole situation was doing really freaking well for my writing. Maybe that’s why I was so calm about everything. I was immersed in a horror of my own making. More appropriately, a horror I could control.
Deacon was sitting on the sofa, feet up, beer in hand, pretending to read a Stephen King book. I knew he wasn’t reading it because of the way he was holding it. Politely. Not damaging the spine,