Page 38 of Warrior

The loony bin.

“Is Saint here?” I demand.

Her chin wobbles, and she points over her shoulder.

I stalk around the desk. Separating his work space from the rest of the room is a half wall, with a curtain currently dragged across it for privacy.

The buzzing noise—his tattoo machine, surely—stops. I yank the curtain back.

Saint sits on a stool, and he’s tattooing a man’s back. Well, he was up until right this moment. He’s wiping a wad of paper towels across it, and his head jerks up at my abrupt entrance.

“Reese.” He scowls. “Wait for me out front.”

“I think your secretary pissed herself.”

He rolls his eyes. “Have you seen yourself?”

I fold my arms over my chest. “No.”

He grabs a handheld mirror and tosses it to me. I manage to catch it, raising it to my face.

Ah. Well, apart from the dark-blond scruff, my face has a lovely patchwork of motley bruises that have yet to fade. Black eye, yellowish-green cheekbones. At least the swelling has gone down.

“Right,” I allow. “So I’ll wait here.”

Saint grunts. His attention returns to his client, while I drift toward the far wall. There are sketches pinned or taped to it—not like the framed beauties out front, these seem like works in progress.

There’s a realistic arrow. A mask I recognize as one that might belong to Ares—the God of War does not fucking mess around with his bloodshed. A black-and-gray peony.

He’s talented.

Obviously he’s talented, he’s got his face in fucking magazines.

Sometimes the hype just doesn’t match the skill, and here, it might be the other way around.

Finally, Saint ushers his client out front to the secretary and we’re alone.

“Okay.” He snaps off his gloves and tosses them in the trash. “Why did you storm in here? Are you even up for storming?”

I glower at him. “You need to be home more.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Have you seen Artemis lately?” I step closer. “Like, have you actually looked at her?”

Saint blinks once, then again. It takes him a second to get what I’m implying, and his lips flatten.

“I’ll take that as a no.” I scoff. “She’s falling apart, but she thinks…”

I don’t know what she thinks.

She won’t talk to me.

“She’s not falling apart,” Saint argues. “She’s just coping. It’s a process.”

I laugh in his face.Sorry not sorry, Saint. “What the fuck do you know about coping? You’re a miserable fuck ninety-seven percent of the time.”

He doesn’t have a response to that.

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