Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,82

I was forced to face the world—Saint and Margot—bare-faced and without my hair products.

Margot acted like she came to Saint’s house every morning for coffee and muffins, and he sat there silently, not joining in on the conversation, but also not shooting her for trespassing.

She didn’t get hysterical. No tears. No asking if I was okay. She just sat and had coffee. It was what I needed.

But I also needed my clothes. Makeup. Books. My laptop.

Saint knew this without me having to ask. Because he was Saint.

So, still not wearing any pants, he drove me home.

There was no one there. It hadn’t taken long, I guessed, for even small-town cops, unused to murder, to be able to get the evidence. Take the pictures.

I didn’t pause walking in the front door. Didn’t have some kind of breakdown with it “all coming back to me.” Though, I was pissed off the place was a mess.

And not even a mess.

It was dirty.

Footprints. Dirt. Blood. My bare feet, stenciled in red.

They would’ve checked in the study. I knew this last night, which was why I’d quickly torn down my murder wall, shoving it away in a locked drawer. I didn’t need the too-sharp chief asking questions.

A quick glance told me my laptop was there. No fingerprints. Its position hadn’t moved.

Things had been changed plenty in the bedroom.

Made sense.

The blood was cold now, but there was a pool of it. Not dried yet.

I wondered if the stain would come out. Just then, Saint’s heat pressed to my side.

“It’s funny, I thought that the police would take care of all the aftermath.” I gestured to the blood. “But of course not, that’s not their job. They take notes, write up reports, take the body, which is helpful, but all the fluids are mine to dispose of.”

“I’ll handle it.”

I glanced to Saint. “You know someone who cleans crime scenes.”

He nodded once. It was sharp. Harsh. I was thankful for that. I shouldn’t have let him take care of it for me. I could’ve used my contacts to get someone who cleaned crime scenes. My assistant would have found someone within minutes. But I didn’t do that.

We didn’t decide anything.

No “where is this going, what are we” Sex and the City bullshit. No. We had crazy, hot, angry, and mind-blowing sex on a regular basis. He cooked for me. He didn’t force the food down my throat, and didn’t say anything concerning my eating habits, beyond what he’d said on the first night. There was no judgment if I didn’t finish a meal, or if I ate it all. Despite what it took me to admit it, he had been right with what he said. I had been starving myself, working myself out to the point of exhaustion, because those two things were manageable to me. Easy to control. And I was vain. I liked fitting into sample sizes. I liked looking thin. Strong. But it was toxic. It was unhealthy.

So, I ate.

I didn’t gorge myself. There was no way I could change years of habits because of one conversation with a man. But I adjusted. Slowly. I worked out just as hard, mainly because the gym in Saint’s basement made me drool almost as much as his coffee machine.

But it wasn’t just the gym, the coffee, the food, or even the orgasms that had me spending every second night at his place. It wasn’t even the fact he was broken like me. It was something I couldn’t explain. Something I didn’t want to explain. Because that was dangerous.

My writing was better than ever. He didn’t complain or ask questions that me staying at his house meant sex, me eating, then tapping at my laptop for hours on end. He gave me space. Locked himself in the room that was indeed filled with computers and all sorts of graphs I didn’t understand.

We were in his library today.

My writing location changed whenever I was here. As I’d imagined, I sat in the chairs in Saint’s room, whisky in hand, doors open, writing while the cold came in.

Other times, it was while Saint slept.

Today, it was in the library. He was reading. Not beside me, he knew I wouldn’t allow that, but in a chair on the other side of the room.

He was reading one of mine. He had almost all of them in his library. And after pulling them out and inspecting them, it was clear he’d read them all. He hadn’t said anything to me about this. Hadn’t