know that. Also know you’re not usin’ me for my shower,” he continued, in a weird, almost teasing tone that matched the eyebrow. It did not match him, but a vapid part of me liked it, nonetheless. “I also know that you’re a bitch to almost everyone, but not so much that you’d hurt someone on purpose.” He paused. “Unless they deserve it. I know you’ll drink wine, red mostly, rosé if you think no one’s watchin’. Whisky is preferred. I know you have nightmares. Not bullshit, like other people have. Real nightmares. Shit that scares me just havin’ to watch it. And I don’t scare easy, baby. I know that’s the real reason you don’t sleep well, even though you like to think it’s ’cause you’re an artist, which you are.
“I’ve read your shit, babe. Not all of it, ’cause your books are thick and you’ve written a lot of them. I’ll read all of them, be sure about that. I’ve read enough. But enough to know you’re talented. Depraved. Special. So yeah, you’re an artist. I know that your mind is your worst enemy. What toll it takes to create that art. I know you think you’re a bad person but even though you might not be a good one, you’re a fucking extraordinary one.” He stepped back, not looking to seduce me with his sex appeal, his body, because he was doing it with his words.
The damn asshole was using something against me I was so sure was mine.
I swallowed. It was hard, and my spit seemed to be chewed-up pieces of my fucking heart.
Then, I folded my arms. I tried to hastily erect barriers, out of pure terror. No one had noticed all of that about me before. No one had held up a mirror to me and showed me what they saw. That they saw me.
I hated it.
I snatched up the wine and a fresh glass, pouring it sloppily. I needed something.
“You don’t know I’m narcissistic, you don’t know how deep it goes. I like it,” I admitted, my voice small. Ashamed. “The recognition. The fame. The fucking likes on social media. The money. I like the spotlight.” I sipped my wine. “I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say. What anyone is supposed to say. Especially an author. We’re meant to be in it for the craft, for the art. And I am. To an extent.” I sucked in a breath. “I’m not a good person. Not by a long shot. I’m selfish. I’m vain. I don’t truly love anyone. But I love being loved. Being hated. Being anything but anonymous. I manipulate people. I manipulate you.”
“I know that you’ve been manipulatin’ me,” he said. “I also know I’ve been lettin’ you.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but didn’t get the chance.
Saint’s face changed so quickly it jarred me a second. He moved so he was standing between me and the front door, knife at his belt, unsheathed.
I didn’t ask him what the fuck was going on because I knew something was going on. I could feel it. The air was wired. Dangerously quiet. Being here for as long as I had, I’d learned to recognize the different kinds of quiet out here. And this one was holy unnatural.
I was pissed at the fact I was behind Saint and didn’t have my gun, but his grip on my wrist was damn near breaking it, I didn’t like my chances of trying to break free so I could go and get a weapon of my own. For now, I’d have to rely on Saint to protect me, despite the mere thought making me physically sick.
We didn’t have to wait long, since the door opened within seconds, a large form taking up the small doorway.
Saint didn’t move forward to attack and no one shot him, which was unexpected. Saint’s instincts were spot on, and if he was braced for danger, then I was ready for the next world war.
“You gonna stab me or give me a hug?” was the greeting we got, which was preferred to any kind of attack. Though, I wasn’t gonna lie and say it wasn’t going to turn me on to see Saint stab someone.
That was me.
The man’s voice was teasing. Friendly. Familiar even.
However, Saint was not looking to be friendly or familiar with this guy. His stance was still taut, hostile, knife still raised, and his grip around my wrist was nothing short of bone-breaking.
Though Saint’s large body was obscuring