Page 39 of Saint of the Shadows

yET, eVEN wHEN i sTAnd IN THE rOAD, i sTILL dOUBT mY pOWER. hOW dOes IT fEEL, iZzY, wHEN i pUNCH yOUR gETAWAY cAR? mY fIST cRUNCHes THE fRONT eND, aND THE tIRES sCREAM lIKE A sTUCK pIG. The sHATTERING gLASS mOVES mE lIKE tHE tINKLING oF cHURCH bELLS. yOUR cAR fLIes oVER mE AND rOLLs TO THE rIVERBANK. THE sMELL OF bURNT rUBBER AND sMOKE gIVEs mE A hARD-oN.

yOUR dRIVER cRAWLS oUT, nO lONGER hUMAN-sHAPED. i aDMIRE hIS vIGOR. i aDMIRE tHAT hE sTILL fIGHTS eVEN AS hIS bODY liEs bROKEN. tHAT fINAL gASP OF aIR wHEN i rIP hIS bARELY bEATING hEART FROM hIS cHEST! yOU pROBABLY kNOW tHAT bLOOD lOOKS lIKE iNK IN THE dARK. jUST AS yOU mIGHT kNOW tHAT THE mETALLIC sMELL OF bLOOD mAKES yOU hIGH.

wHEN wILL i sMELL yOUR bLOOD, iZZy?

mY mOUTH wATERS.

i bREak oUT THE pASSENGER wINDOW, dESPERATE TO kNOW wHAT A gREAT mAN’S hEART fEEls lIKE IN mY hAND.

bUT yOU aRE gONE. sWALLOWED bY tHE rIVER pERHAPS?

THE cITY wILL tHANK mE bECAUSE i sAVED tHEM FROM yOU. AND then i’LL sAVE tHEM FROM THE pOLICE, THE gANGS, AND THE mASKED vIGILANTES. i’LL dEMAND tHEIR fEALTY OR tHEIR dEATH. wHAT sHALL IT bE, sHADOWHAVEN? pROSPERITY OR pLAGUE?

wHAT sHALL iT bE?

14

I Thought Billionaires Owned More Things

The sun was out when Marisol opened her eyes. Patches of golden light made their way into the room from behind the shutters. Still asleep a pillow’s length away from her, Vincent breathed deeply, his back moving up and down with gentle inhales and exhales. His golden hair caught flecks of sunshine.

Something was wrong. She sat up, trying not to rustle the bed. The back of his head was perfect. Yes, that’s what was wrong with it. Hadn’t she taped a wound there a few days ago? There wasn’t even a scratch. Perhaps his cut was buried under the waves of his hair that almost curled into angelic tendrils. She grazed the pads of her fingers over those waves, barely smoothing over the stray wisps. He remained undisturbed, so she combed her fingers through,searching for a flaw.

But the Patron Saint.

She retracted her hand, overcome by a rush of complicated shame. Complicated because she wanted to touch the back of Vincent’s head again. Ashamed because in that wanting, she broke the covenant her kiss made to her Patron Saint. And of course, referring to a rooftop make-out session as a covenant was something she’d have to unpack if she had time for therapy or a good self-help book.

For now, she had to stow her complicated shame away because she accidentally nudged Vincent awake.

Vincent flipped over to face her and nestled against the pillow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stay here.”

“It’s okay. I needed it. Your grip, it’s like a thunder vest for a dog.”

He propped his chin on one hand and smiled. “You’re a dog in this scenario.”

“No.” Marisol smacked him with a pillow. “Only admiring your therapeutic benefits.” Oof! Too much movement. She cradled her side. “Speaking of which, where do you keep your Epsom salt?”

He jumped from the bed and headed into the bathroom. The weight of sleep creased his jeans and white t-shirt. The quiet calm of earlier dissipated as Vincent opened and shut cabinets, gathering supplies. More noise followed—running water and ripping packages.

Once Marisol joined him in the bathroom, he handed her a roll of plastic cling wrap and a castprotector. “For your leg.” With a hurried crack of the packaging, Vincent opened a roll of fresh gauze and soaked it in a wash bowl cloudy with Epsom salt and water. “We’ll wrap this around your bruises once you’ve cleaned up.”

Marisol struggled to bend far enough to wrap the plastic over her foot, finding her once-dependably flexible hamstrings a new source of disappointment. She silently cheered as she secured the plastic wrap, bunching it at her foot. But attempting to wind the plastic around her leg freed it from its hold. Back to square one. In the corner of her eye, she caught Vincent tapping his foot before he asked, “Do you need help with that?”

“I think I have it figured out.” Marisol tossed a limp streamer of plastic far from her target.

Vincent commandeered the plastic wrap and circled it around her cast with seamless precision. As soon as he wrapped around the bottom of her thigh, he gave her the roll. “You rip it.” Marisol tore the plastic off and sealed it against her skin. Vincent grabbed the humongous plastic Christmas stocking of a cast protector and guided it up her leg. “I’d double-check if it seals.” His fingers met hers just above her wrapped thigh.

Heat rose to her face. That was a part of her thigh she wanted the Patron Saint to know, not the siren allure of Vincent. “If your fingers come up any higher, I’ll break your hand.”

Vincent arched a single eyebrow and raised his hands up as if he surrendered to her threat. Shesucked in her cheeks to stop a smile from forming. Proper grief limited her smile supply, and smiles weren’t going to be handed out so easily. At least not until he turned his back.

She wheeled to the massive, walk-in shower and eyed the tiled bench at the back that offered a place to sit and a ledge to prop up her leg. However, the shower frame was far too narrow to fit her wheelchair through. “I drag myself across the floor and sit up there to shower? This isn’t exactly ADA compliant.”

“Right.” He scratched his chin. “I could carry you?”

No, no, no, no, no. Way too intimate, Varian. Might as well offer her a sponge bath.

Oh no.

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