Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(68)

But fuck if I don’t grab her, pull her against me, and kiss her with every. Fucking. Thing that I have. It’s sweet escape. It’s naked truth.

It’s the wrecking ball that smashes through the last of the walls I’ve thrown up.

And part of me knows I could die happy now. Part of me knows that with the one kiss, and the exchange of those words, I’ve suddenly done more living in the last forty seconds than I have in thirty years. And if now’s my time, I could go and be pretty okay with that.

But then there’s the other part of me. There’s the part of me that knows going out now means this is the last kiss. It’s the part of me that realizes that this could be the end - the part of me that suddenly sees the unfairness and the cruelty of giving me this brief taste of what I didn’t even know I was looking for, only at the very end.

And that pisses me off.

That enrages me.

Something snaps in me, and I suddenly kiss her as fiercely as I can. I kiss her until we can’t breathe before I pull back. I whirl, teeth bared as if ready to fucking fight this fire hand to hand - ready to charge head first into it and go down swinging. My eyes drag up at the raging fire, and suddenly, they land on the rusted metal pipes, drooping lazily from the ceiling above us.

I freeze for one second, before it all snaps into place.

I whirl, my eyes landing on the old metal desk chair tipped on its side in the corner. I lunge for it, yanking it up in my hands and raising it high.

“Stand back, princess,” I growl, hefting the chair in my hands, and before she can say a word, I raise it high and bring it crashing into one of the pipes.

The thing trembles, but it holds.

I grit my teeth, feeling the smoke and the sweat pouring down my face as I raise the chair up again, bringing it crashing against the pipe a second time.

Rust flakes sprinkle like dirty snow, the thing shudders again, but it still holds.

This better fucking work.

My eyes start to burn fiercer, my lungs are on fire, and I can hear her coughing uncontrollably behind me.

I’ve got one more shot at this because we’re about to run out of time.

One more shot.

Just give me one more fucking shot.

I grip the chair in my hand, raise it back, narrow my eyes at the pipe, and then I hit that motherfucker like it’s the devil himself.

And the damn thing shatters.

The water that comes gushing out is fucking hot, but it’ll do. I whirl and lunge for Sierra, who’s collapsing to her knees, coughing and gasping, and yank her up in my arms.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” I growl into her ear, ducking us under the water, drenching us, and shaking it from my hair as I eye the doorway.

“Connor,” she opens her eyes weakly, following my look and then turning back to me, fear in her eyes.

“I don’t think-”

“Do you trust me?”

Her eyes hold mine.

And she nods.

I kiss her once more, tasting the goodness in her lips, the sweetness in her gasp, and swearing to whatever god is up there that if this is the last one, I’m going to come meet him swinging.

The water drenches me, pouring over my face as I narrow my eyes at the belching flames of the doorway.

“Deep breath, beautiful,” I whisper in her ear.

And I run head first into the fire.





Chapter Thirty-Four





Sierra




I’m aware of blazing heat - of smoke, and fire, and the shuddering, wrenching sound of the building shattering around us. I’m screaming, my fingers digging into him as we stumble through the flames, madly searching for the doorway.

There’s a booming sound like a cannon going off, and Connor roars as exploding wood and fire slams into us from the side. A wall of flame erupts in front of us, and I scream again as he drops to one knee, his chest heaving.

I slip out of his arms, my heart hammering a million miles a second, and one thought pulsing through my head.

I will not die here.

I will not die five seconds after everything in my life finally clicks.

Five seconds after I tell the rough, broken, complicated man who stole me away five days ago that I love him.

Screw how insane that sounds. Screw how incredibly fucked up that sounds even in my own head.

Screw Stockholm syndrome.

I’ve found the one thing and the one man that makes everything make sense, and I’ll be damned if I die here and now, like this.

I throw my arms around his waist and yank him to his feet.

“Let’s move it, Roarke.”

He grits his teeth, suddenly throwing himself over me as another explosion rocks across us.

“I’ve got you, princess,” he growls, hauling me up and barreling forward, limping.

I slip my arm around his waist, shouldering some of his weight.

“And I’ve got you, mister,” I hiss back fiercely.