There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(62)

Outsmarted by Shaw . . . what a fucking humiliation. I should let the cops put me out of my misery.

Hitting the ground, I limp through the sickening pain, driven on by pure rage, by the desire to live through this so I can wreak my revenge on Shaw, so I can make him pay for this.

This is his fault.

His and Mara’s.





It takes over two hours to shake off the cops and return to Seacliff. Some of that time is me hiding in a filthy alleyway, crouching under a pile of moldering trash bags, ankle too swollen to run another step.

The ignominy of this is almost too much to bear.

I spend every second imagining how I’m going to peel the skin off Shaw’s flesh, inch by inch. Death will be a mercy for which he will beg, hour after hour.

I’ve never been so relieved to walk through my own front door.

The next hour is me standing under a boiling shower spray, scrubbing my own skin as if I, too, should be flayed.

After that, the thinking begins.

I’ll kill Shaw, that much is certain.

But how the FUCK am I going to do that when I’m already injured? Even at my peak, Shaw is more than a physical match for me. I’m smarter, but he’s bigger.

He knows I’m coming, too. He’ll be watching for me. Waiting.

In the meantime, Mara remains a constant point of vulnerability.

Shaw’s primary goal will be to kill her.

He’s jealous of me. Fixated on me. He knows I want her—which means he wants her more.

Taking her from me will be a greater triumph than putting a knife in my heart.

I can’t possibly keep her safe. Not for any significant length of time.

Mara weakens me. It was chasing after Shaw on impulse, believing I had to act quickly to protect her, that put me in this position. Now my ankle is puffed up like a snakebite and I can barely stand.

Worse, she weakens my mind. My decision-making. She warps my goals and values, making me think I care about things I never gave a fuck about before.

I can’t protect her. Her death is inevitable.

But I’ll be damned if Shaw is the one to do it.

Mara belongs to me.

I’m the only one who gets to kill her.





28





Mara





Rain thunders down outside the laundromat, drumming on the roof.

It’s late on a Sunday night. Most everyone who had laundry to do finished hours ago. Only one load remains rotating next to mine: a jumble of dingy gray socks, which I assume belong to the tiny Asian grandmother asleep against the vending machines.

I’d rather not be doing laundry either, but it’s been weeks since I stopped wearing underwear, and I’m down to my last t-shirt, emblazoned with a graphic print of Mia Wallace, complete with bloody nose. Joanna makes movie t-shirts for spare cash on the side. She’s so good at it that she could probably afford to rent a room in a much nicer place. I think she stays because she worries we’d burn the place down without her. Or at least, Heinrich would.

Under the t-shirt, I’m wearing floral boxer shorts, striped hockey socks, and a pair of battered flip-flops. It’s not my greatest look, but the sleepy grandma doesn’t seem to mind.

I lean against the dryer, watching my darks tumble around and around. The motion is soothing. Even better, the warmth of the dryer seeps into my body, loosening the stiff muscles of my chest, making me melt against the convex glass.

I’m trying to decide what the fuck to do about Cole.

I can’t keep avoiding him.

I’m itching to get back to my painting, back to that gorgeous studio that acts like creative catnip, whipping me into a frenzy as soon as I step foot through the door.

Or maybe it’s Cole who puts me in a frenzy.

I’ve never had as many ideas in a year as I now seem to get in a week. Even in my sleep, I see streams of layered images, colors so rich you could eat them, textures that make you want to roll them across your skin . . .

I know exactly what I need to do to finish my devil.

But to do it, I’ll have to walk through Cole’s door.

I don’t think we’re playing a game anymore.

I filet people with precision . . .

He does what I do BADLY . . .

Jokes and threats? Manipulation?

Or the pure, unvarnished truth?

Cole implied that Alastor Shaw is a killer.

More than implied that he’s one, too.

He does what I do BADLY . . .

It seems impossible.

We’re talking about two of the most famous men in the city. Artists, for fuck’s sake.

Rival artists.

Or perhaps . . . just rivals.

You were given to me . . .

I jolt up from the dryer, the warmth of the tumbling clothes giving way to the chill that grips the back of my neck.

Two men. One heavy and rough. One slim, light, almost silent . . .

Convulsively, I clasp my palm over the wriggling scar running up my left wrist. I can feel it under my thumb, thick and hot as a snake.

I spoke to Alastor Shaw the night I was kidnapped. I met him at the show, before I went outside to vape with Frank. We only talked for a minute before Erin interrupted us.

Erin said she fucked him in the stairwell. How long did that take? Quick enough that he could have seen me leaving? Quick enough that he could have followed?