Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(58)

I laugh bitterly. “And there we are, right? Now we’re dropping the bullshit, huh?” I suck my teeth, looking away. “So that’s what I am, right? Just the naive girl stupid enough to fall for your bullshit? Some sort of easy prey who you could tie up and screw around with?”

“I’d hardly say you put up a fight.”

I whirl back, and I slap him - hard, across the mouth.

My eyes immediately go wide, the same hand flying to my open mouth as he slowly turns back to me, his eyes raging with fire.

“I think we’re done here.” He says it coolly, slowly - his words calculated and icy. He stands and flings open the kitchen door. I sit there shaking, my hands clenched into fists as I stare at the stupid burner phone sitting on the loveseat next to me.

Connor reappears a second later, yanking a t-shirt over his head and jangling his keys.

My heart sinks, and the regret chills through me.

“Connor-”

“I’m going for a drive.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, my eyes searching his face for his, but finding only shadow as he purposely looks away.

“Great.”

He strides across the porch, down the side steps, and disappears around the side of the house. A second later, I can hear the belching roar of his Charger, followed by the sound of scattering gravel and sand as he peels out of the driveway.

I deflate, the air hissing through my lips as I drop back into the loveseat and bury my face in my hands.

Fuck.

I glare again at the stupid phone the FBI agent made me take, narrowing my eyes at it before I grab it and throw it violently off the porch. I sink back into the wicker at my back, running my hands through my hair.

What the hell am I even doing here?

And again, the thought comes to me that all of this isn’t fixing anything. This isn’t solving any of the shit that’s been building up in my life, it’s just an escape.

He’s my escape, and as beautiful and broken an escape it is, our exchange just now only highlights the reasons why I need an escape from my escape. Because he’s right: our worlds couldn’t be farther apart, and I want to say that doesn’t matter, but I know how stupid and silly that sounds before my brain can even finish the thought.

It’s time to stop running.

It’s time to stop the escape and the vacation from life.

It’s time to face the music.

I groan as I drag myself off the loveseat, padding back inside and slipping on the old pair of Nora’s sleep shorts. I eye the too-tight pink t-shirt and roll my eyes, hating that my mind goes back to the look on his face when I stepped into the living room two days before.

I shake my head and grab the plaid button-up of his from the back of the couch instead. It’s arguably a worse move because it’s such a fucking girlfriend thing to do, but I decide it’s the lesser of two evils.

I sigh heavily as I yank out my phone - my phone - out of my bag and scroll to Stella’s number.

It’s time to come clean about all of this.

There’s the sound of tires over gravel in the driveway, and while part of me hates that I freaking smile at the sound of his return, I make peace with that pretty quickly.

I go to the kitchen sink and pour a glass of water as I hear his boots across the porch, and when the screen door opens behind me, I take a big gulp, readying myself to face him and lay all of our cards on the table. Because it is time to come clean and lay down what this is, come what may.

“You came back.”

He says nothing, and I can’t help but smile at his ever-present stoniness.

“Look, I think we should-”

“And I think you should scream, just a little bit.”

And I do.

I scream as I whirl, the glass dropping from my hand and shattering to the floor at the sound of the Russian voice behind me.

Not Russian. Ukrainian.

I almost bolt, but two of them are on me in a second, hands grabbing my arms and physically picking me up, heedless of my kicking feet as they bring me forward, towards him - the man from the back room of the Rusty Duck.

Terror claws at me, silencing me like a hand on my throat as the two henchmen hold me firmly right in front of him.

“No, please,” he smiles wickedly, licking his thin lips. “Please scream for me, little girl.”

My heart thunders in my chest, but I squeeze my mouth shut, sucking in breaths of heavy air through my nose.

“I do so like it when they scream,” he says, his accented voice dripping with malice. I bite hard on my lips, refusing to give him what he wants. He grins wider, his hand comes up, and the cold, naked metal of his knife drags lightly over my cheek.

This time, I do scream.





Chapter Thirty





Connor




The Charger throbs around me as I take the car roaring down the back beach roads, skidding over gravel and sand. I’ve got the windows down, letting the briny sea air blast over my face. I spin the wheel, taking the car roaring around a sandy turn and gunning the engine, blasting down the access road to the old Chatham light-house point.