Page 54 of Saint of the Shadows

Her body spasmed as it felt like another floor dropped out from under her. They bonded over their pasts, over family, food, and the heartbreak of loss. Yet his homes were living mausoleums collecting more and more stuff because he never had to lose anything.

Through clenched teeth, she said, “You lied to me.”

“I couldn’t bear it,” he replied, voice shaking.

He had the nerve to lie to her and snivel because he felt bad? Her darker self, the one too close to Caz, wanted to make ashes of those fake happy memories at the lake house. “Those stories of you and Leonard? You played me! All along you were talking about yourself!”

“It was all true.” He heaved a sigh and muttered, “Leonard was an orphan boy whom I offered a future, and in exchange, he helped me but died an old man.” He stared outside the window, clenching the muscles in his jaw.

Marisol gasped as if she had emerged from depths of hatred that she swore she’d drown in. No,Vincent wasn’t shut off from loss, he was a vortex of loss, and he would take her with him. She had to escape. But how? “Come here, Vincent.” He kept his focus outside, so she vied for his attention another way. “Vicente, ven aquí.” She lowered onto her good foot and propped her weight against the desk’s ledge.

He looked at her with his brilliant stained-glass eyes.

She untied the coat and let it drop to the ground. “Ven aquí, ahora, Vicente.”

He took one step forward.

That wasn’t right. He needed to show how contrite he truly felt. “No!” she ordered, “Crawl.”

Thunder rattled the windows. Her Vincent dropped to his knees and slinked toward her like a predator. On his knees, he hugged around her waist and nuzzled her belly.

Marisol’s knee buckled, and she caught herself on his shoulders. This still wasn’t right. “Heal me, Dr. Varian.”

He grabbed the syringe on the table, filled it with the serum, and pulled Marisol’s shorts down to expose her hip. He hovered the needle over the muscle and glanced at her with a plea that asked, Are you sure?

She answered, “Do it!”

He jabbed the needle into her side and pushed the plunger down. The serum sizzled in her veins like freezer burn. The first blow hit, taking Marisol’sbreath away as she stumbled back into the desk. She squeezed the edges of the desk and gulped for air. She caught her breath, a sip of respite. Not completely terrible. The pain had been worth it until the stab became a crushing avalanche. Marisol writhed, kicking her good leg. She wanted to escape her body, thrashing and squeezing her muscles.

She blinked rapidly and then felt nothing.

Released from the torture, Marisol relaxed. So did her stomach. She dry-heaved as a warning. Vincent caught the real deal with a bedpan when she vomited. Before she finished wiping her mouth, another wave of pain crashed into her. Her stomach tightened, heaving up what little she had left.

He sawed through the fiberglass layer of her cast and cut away the cotton layer. With a snip, Vincent freed Marisol’s leg. A faint scar below her knee was the only sign of her injury. He said, “You’re free.”

Her veins buzzed with adrenaline from the drug’s after-effects. She moved to walk on her new leg, but it took weight like jelly. She fell into Vincent and steadied herself with her arms around his neck. She could have everything now, the pain and pleasure wrapped in a silk, leather, and barbed wire bow. “I want you more than ever.”

“Hm.” He leaned his forehead against hers.

She approached the edge. With two working legs, she could jump or walk away. What would it be? She could have everything except… “But answer this. If it wasn’t for you, would Annie still be alive?”

His chin trembled as he kissed her forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She pushed him back yet kept a firm hold of him, fisting the fabric at the neckline of his sweater in both hands. “Answer me!”

“I don’t know.”

Sobs wrenched from her chest as an unseen rope pulled her between him and Annie. Escape. “I need to go home.”

He held her jawline in his thumbs, his fingers threading her hair at the nape. “The Bloodsucker.”

She let go of his sweater. “I’ll keep a low profile.”

“It isn’t safe.”

She extricated herself from his grip. “How can I be safe with you?” and stood straight on her own two legs. “Everything you touch dies!”

He closed his eyes and stepped back. His resignation twisted like a vise around her chest. But for Annie, she walked out of his study, ran through his ballroom, and left him behind. He’d just become one of those weird stories she had about her city: man-eating sewer rats, immortal cockroaches, and the weekend affair with the cursed superhuman.

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