Page 34 of Soulless Saint

Okay, well, maybe half as strong, but that was still stronger than any other person I’d ever had the honor to know.

“Becca?” Kate pressed, and I realized she’d been asking me something as I tapped the cap-end of my pen on the notepad in front of me. I met her worried blue-eyed stare and watched it bob between me and my empty notepad as class ended.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted to come to hot yoga with me tomorrow. You look a little…”

“Stressed?” I supplied.

“Actually, I was going to say you look like you’re going to murder someone, but stressed works, too.”

I huffed out a laugh I didn’t really feel. “That’s just my face. You get used to it.”

Kate grinned, gathering up her books. “Tatum’s before next class?”

We only shared Art Foundations together since she was focused more on ceramics and I was firmly decided on painting. We strolled out from the main building, and I let Kate lead the way to the little snack shop cafe they had on campus. The coffee was absolute shit, but they had good muffins, if you were into carbs, and the smoothies weren’t half bad, either.

“Two strawberry banana please,” Kate asked the counter attendant once it was our turn, and I squinted at some art show posters on the wall while we waited, moving down the row of them.

I nearly tripped over a pair of black booted feet, crossed at the ankles, pressing a palm flat to the wall to stabilize myself.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Whatever I’d been about to say choked off as I jerked my gaze over a pair of dark wash jeans, past a loose fitted t-shirt with a wide stretched out collar, and up into a pair of familiar green eyes.

“It’s you.”

“Aodhán,” he reminded me, setting his phone down on his lap. I noted the tattooed fingers, the word PRAY inked one letter per finger on his right hand.

I scanned the rest of him, searching for anything that could be considered gang ink in the myriad of tattoos running up his arms, but there were a hundred things that could’ve been gang ink. The trinity of crosses. The hourglass. The white dove. The reaper. Or the roses and thorns.

“Right. Thanks again for the ride.”

“The pleasure was all mine, love.”

That Irish accent should be illegal.

A friction formed in the air between us, charging it with static that only grew with each beat of silence that stretched too long.

“Two strawberry banana smoothies!” the counter attendant called and I jumped, relieved at the interruption.

“Well, see you around, Aodhán.”

“How about tonight?”

I froze, turning to find him kicking back in the armchair, his fingers pleated together, tucked behind his head, exposing his Adonis belt.

My gaze got stuck on a flowing script tattoo running down the sharp curve of his hip bone, vanishing beneath his jeans.

It was in a language I didn’t understand but assumed to be Irish Gaelic and damn it if I wasn’t about to drool.

“What do you say?” He adjusted his hips, breaking the spell with a smirk on his lips. He’d caught me staring.

I shook my head sharply, trying to cast off the flush I could feel heating my face. “No, I’m… I’m fasting.”

“I’m not opposed to a liquids-only date.”

My brows knotted. What?

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