Page 45 of Saint

Even with the best cameras, the dark room and thin fabric of her underwear hide her hand. So all I can make out is the movement of her working herself between her pretty legs. Just enough to know she’s playing with this idea of us.

Letting it rattle around her brain, deciding what she wants to do with it.

With me.

“Soon, kitten.”

I wrap my fingers tighter and intensify my strokes.

Her nipples peak under her T-shirt, and her chest rises and falls like waves on an ocean. Slow and steady. A lapping current that rocks through my mind. Stirring up the adrenaline building inside me.

Violet’s hand moves faster, but her eyebrows pinch, and she looks frustrated. She doesn’t know why she’s struggling when she wants to come. She doesn’t know herself like I know her. She can’t give her body what it needs to let go.

Violet feeds on fear.

She needs to feel helpless. She needs pain.

Violet needs what only I can give her, so I’m not surprised when she pulls her hand away in anger and covers herself in the blanket.

Unsatisfied.

Not me. I stroke harder at her irritation until the heat of her eyes has my balls pulling tight. My release rips through me, and I come for her.

Switching my phone over to my camera, I snap a picture of my cum-covered cock, then open the Dark Desires app and hitsend.

Saint: Look what you do to me.

15

Only So Many Beats

Violet

There’s always a countdown.

Days only have so many hours.

Hearts only have so many beats.

We’re all inevitably waiting for the last of anything, whether we’ll admit to it or not.

And I can’t help but wonder if that’s why serial killers are fascinated with death. The fact that they get to decide how long a person’s last day is. Or that they’re in control of the final beat that pumps blood through a person’s veins.

I can’t help but wonder how much of it is impulse and how much of it is calculation.

I’ve spent the past year studying murder in textbooks, but it didn’t prepare me for seeing it face-to-face. It didn’t prepare me for Saint.

He’s smart enough to know what he’s doing and not to get caught. And yet, nothing he’s done so far has felt premeditated. Each kill I’ve witnessed bled with a certain undercurrent of passion.

He might have admitted to being on that road on purpose, but when I saw him kill Liam, nothing about it felt planned because it started with them talking. Friendly, even. I watched them through the car window, having what appeared to be a normal conversation.

But then, something was said that shifted the tone between them. I couldn’t hear it with how hard my heart was hammering between my temples, but Saint’s posture changed. His shoulders stiffened, and his fingers clenched. He glanced at me sitting in the car, and any friendliness he displayed, dissipated with what Liam said.

Something set Saint off.

The same can be said for what happened when he killed Nixon. Even if Saint knew the rumors about Nixon were true, I doubt he cared until he thought I might be the one in danger because of it. Me going to Sigma House isn’t what set him off. It was when the threat became real.

I don’t think he murders for fun; he uses me as his excuse.

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