Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,35

Horoscopes. Birth charts. All that shit. It fascinated me, the energy people put into that. The faith. More so than religion. Maybe because I felt like it was a new generation of woman grasping onto affirmations, mediation, crystals—new age witches that couldn’t be burned at the stake.

But I was time poor. Or lazy. Or unable to process this kind of information, about positive energies when I needed the negative ones if I were to continue living life the ugly, beautiful way I’d become accustomed to.

It was only the hairs on the back of my neck prickling just so, a whiff of smoky tobacco that was not at home in this night full of my introspections.

There was no sound, no movement, just a man melting out of the night.

That was not meant to be something that happened to me. Wasn’t I meant to be trained to be aware of my surroundings, of possible threats, to make sure I met them head-on?

Yes, I was one hundred percent meant to be able to do that.

But the situation was not normal.

Which was where predators found their foothold.

They did not wait until you were ready in order to strike. No, they watched until you were the most vulnerable.

Which I was.

He was a predator.

Not a Saint.

No matter what he said his name was.

I was impressed with myself that I didn’t jerk in surprise or make some annoying feminine noise. Of course I didn’t run. Because I couldn’t. I could barely walk with these stupid things. Though, even if I had the ability to run, I wouldn’t. Not in my nature. Even if it was the smart thing to do. Especially if it was the smart thing to do. There was something inside of me that craved more damage, more scars.

And here was a blade in the form of the man.

I didn’t know what I expected him to do. Brutally murder me, maybe.

But definitely not speak.

Right up in my face.

“It’s three in the morning,” he bit out. “What the fuck are you doing awake?”

“Summoning demons,” I snapped, straightening my back, even though I was very aware of the fact I was wearing a cashmere cardigan that barely brushed my ass and was unbuttoned to show the front of my panties and the swell of my boob.

“But the more pertinent question is, what are you doing outside my house at three in the morning?” I continued. “And before you answer, know that I’m aware there’s not fucking sane reason for you to be here.”

He stepped forward, eyes only flickering downward, disinterested. Surely, that was a trick of the dim light. I had tits to be interested in. Two hundred-dollar panties to be interested in.

“Of course there’s no sane reason that I’m outside your house at three in the morning, since you’re the fucking reason.” His voice was low. Not a growl. It was smooth. No hard edges. On the outside, at least.

I blinked. The anger in his voice surprised me. He had seemed so locked down. So interior. Dangerous to be sure, but in control of his every emotion. Every movement. And here he was, cracking, right in front of me, in the moonlight.

Maybe I really was summoning demons. Just not the kind that resided in the bowels of the earth, but instead, within this confusing man.

I didn’t know what to say to this. Certainly, I didn’t want to encourage it. Encourage the feeling, the attraction I felt toward his anger. The pull I felt toward him. But I wanted his demons. I craved them.

Acknowledging that little outburst wasn’t smart. No. I would keep him here. Something had happened that wasn’t right. There was an unnatural bond between us. Some mix of chemicals that came from him saving me. It had mingled, reacted, with his natural testosterone. Made him believe I was someone to be lurking around the night for.

Sure, if he had been a reader, a fan, I would’ve got it. But he hadn’t mentioned a word about my books. To be fair, he’d mentioned only a handful of words in my presence, but a crazy stalker would not have been able to hold in his adoration for me.

Saint was trying to hold in hatred, by the looks of it. For me or himself, I couldn’t quite tell in the dim light.

“I like the night,” I said, unable to do the rational thing and maneuver myself back into the house, locking the door behind me. Because I had an itch. Right at the back of my neck.