Page 122 of Broken Saint

“I just need to clean up and we can go.”

After he ducks his head to kiss me, I slip around him and into the bathroom.

No words have been said since we left the apartment.

Nerves and unease come off Colt in waves. Seeing him so unlike his usual self has my stomach knotted.

We’ve been driving for about thirty minutes. We’ve left the city lights behind in favor of the countryside. Not that we can see it now the sun has set.

With each mile, his grip on my hand tightens.

I want to reassure him that everything is okay, but honestly, I’ve no idea if it is.

He’s given me no clue about where we’re going or what it is he wants to talk to me about.

My mind is running at a million miles a second. I study each signpost and building we pass, trying to get a hint. But I’m still as in the dark as when we left the apartment.

He takes a right down a deserted street, and instantly lights in the distance catch my eye.

There’s a huge building that sits up on a hill, the land enclosed by high walls and a massive set of gates.

Colt slows the car, but he never turns. Instead, he pulls the car to a stop opposite a sign that gives me a clue about what the building on the hill is.

Nightingale House

Treatment Center

“Colt?” I whisper, confused as to why he’d bring me here.

When his hand trembles against mine, I rip my eyes from the lit-up building above us to him.

His eyes are dark, and there are deep frown lines across his brow.

“When I told you that I didn’t do serious relationships, it wasn’t just because I was a douchebag college kid.

“I don’t do serious bec-cause?—”

My breath catches as his voice cracks and he lowers his head, breaking our connection.

“Our mom. She…she lives there,” he confesses, looking up again, but this time his eyes are locked on the building.

“Okay,” I say, turning to face him and taking his hands in both of mine, sensing that he needs the support.

“She has…issues. Many issues. And—” He blows out a breath as he tries to find his words.

“Colt, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me all this. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I do, El. I want to let you in. I want you to finally see the real me. But I’m terrified.”

“Because your mom is in there? Why would you think that?—”

“Not her, Ella. Me.”

“Y-you?” I stutter, confused.

“We were told there was a ten percent chance that we would inherit her illness.”

“Okay. That’s like, really low though, so?—”

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