Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,48

sure to stand a little taller. “Your obligation to me, however fucked up it was, is now done.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak either. Just stared at me. Ate me up with his eyes so I was just chewed up flesh and bone fragments on the frigid ground. Then he turned on his boots and walked away.

In the direction of my house.

Chapter 10

“I was watching her for longer than the others. Because she was beautiful to watch. She had a complicated relationship with this man who didn’t deserve her. He would see. He would find her after I was done. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. My art.”

I didn’t chase after him.

I wasn’t that pathetic. Nor would I give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I looked at the lake for some time more. Tried to turn myself into one of those people who could just stand and stare at nature and be calm.

That was not me.

So, I stomped through the woods, making sure to steady my gait when I came close to the house. The thunk of the axe against wood met me. Then the vision of a man chopping it.

He’d taken off his jacket and his sweater, only wearing a thin Henley with the sleeves pulled up.

It was then I realized I’d never seen his arms. Or any of his bare skin from the neck down. He was always covered in long sweaters, jackets, jeans. Of course, I’d imagined the skin. That it would be tanned, scarred, puckered from violence I knew he’d endured. I’d fantasized about how twisted his skin might be. How ugly.

Muscled, sure. But that didn’t interest me like the thought of scars. Any idiot could take steroids, waste time in the gym. Sure, something vain inside me craved muscles, some leftover need for men to protect me liked a man to be stronger—physically, at least—but it was a man’s scars that were always attractive to me. The only really unique part about them.

Saint did not have scars.

Not the traditional kind.

He had ink.

Stopping cleanly at his wrists, and covering every square inch I could see. The specifics were blurry from my vantage point, but I knew they were good. Not scribbles.

Art.

That wasn’t my eyesight talking, but my instincts about Saint. He wouldn’t cover his body in shoddy work.

It was jarring.

He didn’t look like the type to be covered in tattoos, even though he had all the right qualities. It surprised me.

I was hardly ever surprised.

“You gonna stand in the woods, watchin’, or you gonna help?”

He didn’t look up from what he was doing. Didn’t change his expression. Didn’t even raise his voice. Just kept chopping.

Hot rage ignited in my stomach, able to chase the worst of the chill away. I had to still for a second to make sure I didn’t show it, how much he affected me. Because he was watching, despite his show of concentrating on that fucking wood pile.

Once I was sure I would be able to sufficiently control myself, I made my way over. I didn’t talk to him, didn’t look at him. Instead, I focused on piling the wood he had chopped neatly, in the pile that had been nearing empty. No way was I even addressing the fact he was right; I did need the stores.

It took a while. The chopping. Piling.

Sweat pooled under my arms and dripped down my temples after not long. Not just because of the surprising effort, but because of the pain I was in. He was right, my ankle was not completely healed and every back and forth with armfuls of wood was a new spear up the bottom of my foot right up to my hip.

Saint didn’t ask about it, though I was sure he noted the way I was favoring my good leg. I’d never call it a limp. I’d fall down dead before I limped in front of him. But the effort it took not to was the reason for the sweat covering every inch of my body. The pile of wood was damn near overflowing by the time we stopped.

I was about to pass out from the pain. And Saint was right, it was nearing early evening and I’d only had a banana today.

I didn’t thank him. Offer him a beer or a lemonade.

I just made my way back over to where he’d finished the wood and stared at him. More accurately, his arms. His ink.

I had been right; it was good work. Really fricking good. Motifs of death flowing