Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,59

house itself was dated. Not in a stylistic way, but in a way that told me it had been here a long time. Long enough for the forest to start to swallow it. But these changes were new. Top of the line. With a taste that the simple designer of the original house hadn’t had.

While using the facilities, I wondered how long Saint had been here. No one had mentioned it. He hadn’t offered the information, I hadn’t asked. He’d come here after leaving a deadly gang. I guessed he didn’t grow up here because that would make him far too easy to trace. I didn’t know what he did with his days. How he afforded all of these expensive luxuries.

He was a stranger to the locals but they knew him well enough. As well as a man like this could be known. They knew to keep away from him. Not to bring muffins or pies. No welcome party.

Wandering back down to the hall, there were more dark tones. The day was turning into night; little natural night leaked in, making the hallway full of shadows. Sure, I could’ve turned on the lights, but I liked the shadows.

The smell intensified as I walked closer to the front of the house. All the doors leading off the hallway were closed. I wondered if that was because I was here. Opening one at random, no dead body tumbled out, there wasn’t a girl bound and gagged, begging for help.

It was small library. The smell of books got me first. Old. Damp, almost. Every single wall was covered in bookshelves. They were all full. In the middle of the room was a large, L-shaped leather sofa, facing more unobstructed views of the lake. I ached to pour over the spines of his books, figure him out. Dive in. But I would get lost in it.

Plus, this was merely research. A scouting mission.

I closed the door and went down the stairs.

They were open, so I could look down to the living room and kitchen. Both were huge.

Sex mingled with the smell of herbs and butter.

I liked it a lot.

As I’d been distracted earlier, I hadn’t taken this in. And taking it in from above, it was really something. Everything was purposeful. Sofas, curved together facing a fireplace, a TV above it. A large rug underneath a coffee table. Rugs everywhere, actually, enough to make the room warm, but not enough to cover up the hardwood floors. They gleamed.

Just like the tiles in his bathroom had. You could theoretically lick off those floors. Though I would rather give myself a tattoo with a blunt knife and old ink than do that. My stomach was strong with every gruesome sight that could be conceived. I ate my breakfast while staring at Emily’s crime scene photos this very morning.

But toilets, clean or not…the mere thought of putting my face near one, my stomach roiled at the thought of it. While I didn’t watch much TV as a rule, every time I saw some idiot curled around a toilet, I all but threw the television out the nearest window.

But I was comforted at how clean the bathroom was. Bleach wafted off everything, stinging my nose and pleasing my soul. It was the same everywhere. Not a speck of dust.

I doubted Saint invited someone over to clean, since the whole point of this place was off the grid, which meant he must’ve had serious OCD. It didn’t jive with everything else. Or maybe it did. The man was obsessed with control.

But not so obsessed he wasn’t able to be beat with a good amount of fight. My muscles protesting walking down the stairs proved that.

The kitchen was just as impressive as the living room. Large. Fancy-looking stove. Kitchen island. Saint in low slung sweats and a tight wife beater cooking in it. Yeah, it was impressive.

As was the view from the glass windows. A huge patio area. Fire pit. Grill. Flowerboxes. A greenhouse to the side.

The lake, glittering against the fading sunlight.

Yeah, his view was better than mine.

His gaze met mine as I made my way to the kitchen, but he didn’t speak. He went back to focusing on the pan.

It looked like he’d been cooking a while. Clean dishes were neatly drying on a rack. Two plates ready for food.

Various smells.

I picked up a glass of wine that was sitting on the gleaming, black marble kitchen island. He’d poured it for me. Whether he had crazy super senses