There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(12)

I’m getting colder and colder.

I hear footsteps coming up the path and I stiffen, thinking that this fucking psychopath has returned. He pretended to leave just to fuck with me.

But there’s something different in the stride.

The man who brought me here walked heavily. These steps are so light, so subtle, that for a moment I think I’m imagining them. Hope flutters up in my chest, thinking it might be someone else, maybe even a woman . . .

Then I turn and I see death himself come to claim me.

The man is tall, slim, and dark.

He’s wearing a black suit, flawlessly tailored, incongruous in this barren place. It stands out starkly against the pale flesh of his throat and hands. His black hair, thick and lustrous, frames the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

An artist is always looking at ratios and proportions.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes, the straight slashes of his brows, the line of his nose, the high cheekbones and razor-fine jaw, all relieved by the flawless curve of his lips—I’ve never seen such perfect balance.

It’s so surreal, I think I must be hallucinating.

Especially once he stops and stands over me, looking down.

I’ve never seen such coldness in a human face.

His eyes roam over me, taking in every detail.

His features are motionless. No flicker of sympathy.

Still, the most desperate part of me, the part that refuses to believe what’s happening, makes me whimper behind the tape, begging for mercy, pleading for him to help.

I don’t know if this is the man who brought me here or not. It seems impossible that two separate strangers could be walking this deserted stretch of woods, but I’m confused by the way he examines me.

If this is someone else, why doesn’t he help me?

I scream behind the tape, my throat raw, the sound echoing in my mouth.

I glare up at him, confused, furious.

He just fucking stares.

Then he steps over me like I’m a loose bag of trash lying in the road. And he walks the fuck away.

I howl after him, strangled, enraged.

This is the moment I almost give up.

My brain can’t understand what’s happening and my body is exhausted, draining out on the frigid ground. I’m so fucking tired. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, my thoughts swirling and breaking apart like punctured yolk.

Smells Like Teen Spirit — Malia J

Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple





I shake my head hard, jolting myself awake with the pain in my jaw.

I’m not fucking dying here.

I can’t feel my hands anymore, but I know they’re covered in blood.

Blood is slippery.

I start twisting my wrists, tugging and pulling, trying to slip my hands free of the plastic ties.

The slashes on my wrist fire up in agony, raw and burning. I start bleeding harder, which is both good and very, very bad. My head is swimming, I’m getting weaker by the moment. On the plus side, I can feel the warmth on my hands, I can feel my right wrist turning, the joint of the thumb compressing as my hand begins to slip free.

I yank ruthlessly, my shoulder screaming at me, and my thumb too.

I’ve always been skinny, small-boned. My hand is barely bigger than my wrist. Slowly, agonizingly, the right hand pulls free.

I sob with relief behind the tape.

Now I can use my right hand to help with the left.

This tie is tighter. It takes even longer than the first—so much yanking and digging with numb fingers that I’m crying long before it’s done.

The relief of pulling both hands loose, of straightening my back from its horrible arched position, is nearly overwhelming. The little blood I have left rushes down through my arms, making my hands heavier and duller than ever, as sharp, electric pulses jolt through my fingertips.

I pull the tape off my face, gasping the crisp night air, cold as water in my mouth.

I want to scream with all my might, but I try to shut the fuck up instead. Who knows where my abductor is now—he could still be close. He could be watching me.

I look around wildly, paranoid that I’m going to see that massive frame hurtling toward me once more.

I see nothing. Only bare ground and the tree line behind me.

I need to get my feet free.

I yank off the stupid stripper shoes, then I look around for a rock with a sharp edge. I try to hack the ties around my ankles, but the rock is slippery in my hand, and I only succeed in hitting my shin, taking out a chunk of flesh.

Gritting my teeth, I retrieve the hateful duct tape and use it to wrap my left wrist, which is bleeding hardest.

Fuck, I don’t know how much time I have left. My vision tilts every time I move my head.

I wipe my palms off on my bare thighs, leaving dark streaks, then I try again. This time I saw through the ties. Pushing off from the dirt, I try to stand.

My legs are completely asleep, as numb as if they were made of putty. I collapse and fall hard to the ground, agonizing sparks shooting up and down my limbs.

Sobbing quietly, I massage the life back into my legs.

I’m not dying here. I’m not fucking doing it.

When I can feel my feet once more, at least a little, I push myself up. Wobbling like a newborn giraffe, I manage to stand.

Then I start to run.

I’m stumbling and lurching, the rough ground cutting the swollen soles of my feet.