Page 64 of Saint of the Shadows

A weird mixture of desire and guilt brimmed to the surface, but instead of saying,Please don’t go, she called out, “I spent the day trying to hate you.”

He stopped but didn’t even bother to turn around. “Okay.”

How dare he brush her off with a short, noncommittal response! She snagged his cape and yanked him away from the ledge. “Okay? It’s not okay.” She spun him around to stare right into those stained-glass eyes. “I think of all the shit piesI’ve been served, and your finger is in every one of ‘em.”

He looked down and stepped back—like he did back at the estate. He was giving up on her, and the squeeze in her chest returned. There was no way she could handle his resigned expression again. She had to jostle him enough to care.

So, she shoved him. “You’re just going to accept that? Stand up for yourself!” She hurled her might into a punch. He raised his forearm and blocked it. She swung fist after fist into his forearm like it was her punching bag. “Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me you’re a good man! Just fucking fight me!”

He caught one of her flying fists in his palm. “Would that please you?”

No, resurrecting the dead would please her. Or maybe finding a gray strand in his golden hair. But of course she answered, “Yes!”

His lips curled into a smile. “You’re bringing a butter knife to a gunfight.”

Once she extricated her fist from his grip, she’d use it again to wipe his smirk off. “Eat my ass! It’s your fault she’s not alive! The problem was right under your nose the entire time!” He finally let her go, and she shook her cramped hand out. “You had to know! You could’ve stopped her from going too far!”

His smile deflated. “I’m sorry.”

She threw him a cross hook and another one. “I don’t care! You could’ve saved her! I should hate you for… for everything!”

He dodged her punches, bobbing and weaving. “Then do it.”

An iron-like taste filled her mouth, so she lowered her guard to catch her breath. “When I try, I end up only hating myself.”

He swept-kicked her legs out from under her, knocking her onto her back. “You shouldn’t do that.”

The force struck the breath from her lungs, which dissipated toward the sky. Adrenaline and dopamine mixed into a heady rush, like fireworks popping inside her skull. He really just did that? She sipped at the air, collected enough oxygen, and sprang back onto her feet. “How? If I hadn’t fangirled over you, I could’ve seen that she needed my help. I could’ve been there in time.”

Never mind reason. Never mind that she intended for each punch and kick to pummel herself. As if under a spell, her body continued to fight, and he answered the call to battle with fluid flips and turns, dodging her attack. The sparring became a dance; the dance morphed from the jabs, kicks, and blocks of kickboxing into the pushes and holds of wrestling.

They reached a standstill huddling together. Her right hand pushed against his shoulder, and the left gripped behind his neck. His position mirrored hers, bracing and holding. “You did seethat she needed help, and you were there,” he replied.

Her feet started to slide, and her leg muscles burned as his strength overtook hers. This pissed her off more. He was easily ten times stronger than her and patronized her with a fair fight. Or he cared, and she was locking horns with the only man who dared to take on her bullshit. She pivoted out of the way; he barreled forward and stumbled to regain his footing. Her exhausted muscles could no longer hold back the truth. “Yet I’m still angry at myself!”

Vincent hugged her from behind and pinned her into a full Nelson with both arms held above her head. “Why?”

She attempted to wriggle out and grunted through clenched teeth, “Because today I saw the life I should live, and I didn’t want it.” She donkey-kicked him away. “I should care that you’re dangerous. I should care if you’re a good or bad man.” And she felt it: that she’d sell her soul if it meant being close to him again. It arrived like a shimmer behind her chest, like spinal fluid reversing to a rhythm of more, more, more. “You’re a barbed hook in my guts, and it fucking hurts, but I don’t care. Whatever you are, whatever you’ve done, I want you in my life.” Everything in her verged on trembling, crying, or breaking as the ultimate fear of running from him lingered in the air. “Do you still want me?”

“Siempre,” he whispered before drawing her into a kiss. The perfect combination of strength and softness in his mouth made her body respond with a swoon. His arms caught around her waist.

Lightning crackled in the distance. They should head inside. She flinched, hugging around his neck tighter.

But she felt no fear.

In each other’s arms, they fidgeted out of their gloves. Fingers freed, she pulled him by the shoulders of his cape and nibbled his lower lip.

In his kiss, she savored all that was ancient and powerful. In his kiss, she tasted his destiny—a man seeking Justice wherever he trod. From the salt on his mouth, he was a man who set ships on fire in the Atlantic. From the sizzling electricity of his touch, he was a man who witnessed the spark of Enlightenment. His tender lips belonged to the man who led a quiet revolution of kindness, defending and protecting the vulnerable. Their mouths parted from each other, only to gasp for enough air. It was a sip of pure oxygen, the taste of the freedom he gave to those he carried to salvation. His hands, digging into the flesh of her lower back, were the hands that cut open the barbed-wire fence of a prison camp. His kiss possessed the history of a man who saved all that he could. He was the original. The hero that inspired other tales. But he was real. He was hers.

Click. Click.Marisol released his cape from its clasps.Click.She unfastened his utility belt. Itdropped to the roof, landing with a metallic timbre that stoked a fire between her legs. He smoothly unzipped her coat and hoodie with one fell stroke. The fire within roared after he shucked off her clothes, dropping her armor into a frenzied pile. The cold felt like nothing against her flushed skin.

He pulled at the thick strap of her sports bra and grunted. She jumped back and out of his grasp. With her arms raised to grapple, she circled him. Eyes glowing and mouth parted, he reached for her, ready to play. She grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him, shoving him face first into the colossal HVAC unit.

Lured by her hunger, she bumped her pelvis against his backside. She desired to drive into him like an animal, to leave him a mindless mess, begging for it again. So she asked, “Want to please me?”

He tipped his head.

“Be still. I’ll tell you when to move.” She kissed him, skimming his jawline.

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