Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(50)

She followed me silently. I felt her steps a foot from mine. Darren was going to shish-kebab my head Game of Thrones-style if I touched her. Besides, there was a bigger plan.

A bigger end game.

The door behind us closed, and because my dick didn’t get the memo that I was not sixteen anymore, I had some serious wood to take care of. My cock was so hard the slit stared directly at my face, only Jesse couldn’t see it, because I still wore surf shorts. But it was just shorts, and I was morally opposed to any kind of underwear on men or women, so she could make out my hard-on if she simply looked.

Which she didn’t.

Thank fuck.

She hopped on top of a crate of orange juice gallons and folded her arms over her chest, dangling her legs. The light was murky and shitty, and she looked even more beautiful, now that I could clearly see her imperfections under the harsh yellow bulb. Her eyes were tired and red. Her mouth was curved in sad dissatisfaction with life. And the freckle under her left eye stained her otherwise pristine skin.

I needed to stop fixating and start fixing. I took her hand in mine. Wasn’t that supposed to be the thing you did when you wanted to be sympathetic? Hold someone’s hand? I’d never been in this position before. I mean, I’d broken plenty of bad news, but I never felt bad about breaking it, if that made sense.

Okay, now I was definitely stalling.

“Repeat after me, Snowflake: the queen is more powerful than the king.”

Her eyes were on mine, and the passion in them surprised me. It was like she knew what I was talking about. Maybe she was good at chess, too.

“The queen is more powerful than the king.”

I took her face in my hands, knowing the natural thing to do was to crash my lips against hers and see my plans and dreams rising in flames.

We can’t touch each other anymore. Not even a peck on the cheek.

Only I didn’t say that. I didn’t even think that all the way. Instead, I asked, “What’s the story with the surfing? You won’t do it?”

I thought she was going to tell me she didn’t like displaying her body after what had happened—which was fair enough—but I never expected her to silently lift her shirt and show me that.

That being her scars.

Purple and deep and taunting.

Slut

I felt my throat bobbing but couldn’t feel the swallow. Her top was bunched up around her tits. I wanted to yank her into me and hug her. I wanted to kiss that damn scar better. I wanted to lick it and bite it and show her that she was still sexy, with or without it. Actually, especially with it. What’s sexier than a goddamn survivor?

But I couldn’t touch her, not like that, so I just rubbed her cheek with my thumb and said through my locked jaw, “I’m going to kill those bastards.”

As I said that, the realization that I could and should crashed into me. I knew their names. Who they were. Getting their addresses would be embarrassingly easy. The only thing stopping me was my conscience, and that fucker was flaky to begin with, which didn’t bode well for them.

She dragged her shirt back down, her eyes searching mine, looking for disgust and disapproval. When she didn’t find any, she rubbed her forehead tiredly. “So that’s why I don’t want to go. I don’t want anyone to see this.”

“I understand.” There were suits that would cover it completely, but even I wasn’t emotionally dumb enough to realize the general sentiment. Her whole body repulsed her.

Jesse released a disbelieving laugh, rolling her eyes so I wouldn’t see the tears hanging on her lower eyelashes, “It’s disgusting, huh? I know.”

“Don’t,” I said, wanting to elaborate but not wanting to admit aloud what I was already beginning to come to terms with—she was gorgeous in the way a lot of girls were, but the demons inside her made her beautiful in a unique, once-in-a-lifetime way.

“But it’s the truth.” She bit her inner cheek, wiping her eyes quickly. The boom of the bass outside hammered against the door. “My Own Summer” by the Deftones. “That’s why I’m not really mad about you not wanting me. I get it, Ba…Roman. I get why you wouldn’t want messy and scarred.”

What the fuck was she talking about?

“Who said I…”

“Did you enjoy whoever you were with last night? And the night before? You must like the variety.” She sniffed, jerking her chin up. I’d actually bailed on yesterday’s client in favor of getting high with Beck and watching porn. But, of course, I couldn’t admit it, because then she’d ask why, and then I’d have to answer, and the answer was very fucking clear, even to a liar like me.

She was still sitting on that crate when I turned around, walking toward a tall table where the boxes of coffee capsules stood.

“You want the truth?” I asked, bracing my hands on the surface. Now I needed a goddamn shield to talk to her without fucking her. Great. Things were going just great.

A sound that was closer to a yelp but supposed to be a groan left her mouth. “I’m definitely getting tired of the lies.”

“I want your ass. Happy? Want it with the scars. With the fucked-up, tragic story. With every fiber of my body. I want to fuck you, and own you, and bruise you, and save you. But I can’t do any of those things. Why? Because you’d hate me afterwards, and that’s a fact, not a speculation. Mark my words. For reasons I can’t tell you right now, fucking you will break you and ruin me. And I may be a bastard, but I’m not the fucking villain.”