Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(31)

“Saylor!” I yell, beating on the door like a maniac, because I am one. Because I don’t know what the f*ck is wrong.

I push against the door gently, until there is enough room for me to stick my head in. And there she is. Curled in a ball on the floor, in the dark with her hands over her ears. I push further, watching her tiny, still body slide across the tile, and finally there is enough room for me to walk in. I’m on my knees in front of her and now that I’m here, I don’t know what the f*ck to do.

“Please don’t yell,” she whispers, and it is a plea that is barely audible.

“What’s wrong?” I try to whisper, but my heart is racing, along with my mind and adrenaline, so my voice is harsh and way above a whisper. I see her flinch, and I swear I’ll cut my f*cking tongue out if I speak too loud again.

I put my hand on her shoulder and bring my face closer to hers. Her breathing is steady, like she has been asleep. I know the motel ain’t the Roosevelt, but the beds aren’t that uncomfortable. I would prefer them over the floor. And then I smell it. The sickening sweet and sour odor of vomit, and I still. “My head. It hurts. I need my medicine.”

I reluctantly leave her and sort through the shit on the counter to try and find some Tylenol. When I grab Saylor’s bag, what I find is a prescription for Imitrex. I ignore the fact that Saylor has an issue with migraines that is severe enough that she has to take prescription meds, and return to her with water and the pill bottle.

“How many?” I whisper successfully.

“Just one.” I help her sit up and place the pill on her tongue then lift the glass to her lips. When she is finished, I hold her in my arms, allowing all of her weight to be on me. I will sit like this for the rest of the day, as long as she is comfortable and in my arms.

“Will you help me back to bed?” I gather her in my arms and carry her back to our bed, but when I try to lay her down she clings tighter. So, I lay on my back and put her on top of me. Her head is on my chest, her hair in my face, and I’m rubbing her back because it seems like that’s what I’m supposed to do.

“Thank you, Dirk,” she says to me and when she speaks my name, a greedy part of me thanks her aching head for giving me this moment to take care of her. I should say something. Good night and sweet dreams don’t seem appropriate, but since I’m enjoying her need for me much more than I should, I reward her with that word of endearment that is growing on me.

“Anytime, baby.”

—

There is no sign of what happened this morning registering on Saylor’s beautiful face when I wake up to find it looking at me. I won’t bring it up unless she does, and by the way she looks, she isn’t going to. I don’t blame her either. If I woke up wearing a radiant smile and feeling as good as she looks, I wouldn’t want the reminder either.

“Okay, don’t be mad.” I immediately tense at her words as she sits on her knees in the bed next to me. She is dressed, her hair braided, and she has makeup on. I couldn’t be mad at her no matter what she did. She could have shaved my head. Masturbated without me. Ate all the Skittles. I don’t care if she painted my f*cking toenails. Anything.

“I went next door and did laundry.” Except that. I’ve had people in the past tell me to count to ten when I became angry. I’m at five and I can’t last any longer. My temples are throbbing and I feel my whole body get hot. I’m f*cking pissed because she left the room. Without me. When she was under strict instructions to never leave.

“I told you to not f*cking leave this room.” I’m growling. I’m growling through clenched teeth, and it is at the infuriating woman that I thought could do nothing to piss me off. When her smile widens, I become more pissed.

“Wait!” she says, holding her hands out to me, as if I’m fixing to bolt. Which is exactly what I want to do. She clumsily gets off the bed while I just lay here, watching her every move. “Look! I did your laundry too!” She is still smiling. I’m still pissed. And her attempts at pleading her case are pissing me off further.

Then her smile dies and she bites her lip. “On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you?” she asks cautiously. And I know there is more. “Okayyyy, a ten it is.”

Now she looks nervous. Really f*cking nervous. She is fidgeting and biting her lip and looking at everything but me. Maybe it’s because she was sick last night. Maybe it’s because she looks so f*cking good this morning. Or maybe it’s just that I’m losing my edge, but I feel my anger dissipate just a little. A fraction. A fraction of a fraction. But I feel it. So she did our laundry. She f*cked up and left the room, but she had good intentions.

“Um,” she starts, and my face has softened, I can feel it. I’m willing her to go on, and I almost want to smirk at her. Then, I see my cell phone in her hand. And my eyes lock on it. When they do, she notices and the fight dies from her as she sighs and decides to tell me everything that is on her mind.

“Your phone rang, and I answered it.” She doesn’t have to say any more. I’m on my feet and over to her, snatching the phone from her trembling fingers before I can stop myself. I flip open the screen and find Nationals as the last received call. I’m shaking. I can feel the angry tremors all over my body. I glare at her and she speaks, without having to be told. She is scared, frightened, terrified, and she damn well should be.