Page 54 of The Tenth Circle
“Or the one who let some guys finger fuck her on the football field.” With a wrinkle of my nose, I add, “In front of her brother too.”
Within a split second Saint’s got a hand locked around my arm. “The fuck are you implying?”
“Other than your precious sister being awhorelike me?”
Attacking a girl who has literally done nothing to deserve it is not only fucked up but hypocritical given the mention above of punishments and crimes.
Like I said, not perfect.
But I need Saint to hurt as much as I am.
The unwarranted is my way of guaranteeing he does.
And I was right, because Saint’s eyes are darkening again, much faster than before.
“Take it back, Jimi.”
“The fuck I will.”
Saint’s other hand fires straight for my chin, returning the stun gun to its original position. “I said...take. It. Back.”
There’s something about being called a whore that makes every form of sense spiral out of a girl.
Case in point. This very moment.
As a whirlwind of logic, reason, and self-preservation spins around me, sending all the red flags flying with it.
Not that flags matter…my fate’s already been sealed.
All I can do now is go down fighting—hoping it won’t be for my life.
“AndIsaid…the fuck. I. Will.”
Silence between us follows—growing sinister and heavy—enough to smother the whirlwind and leave me choking on its debris.
I watch for several seconds, heart beating out of my chest as Saint’s eyes switch from dark to hollow, leaving his stare to drift through me. He remains mostly still, but judging by how his hand shakes around the gun, Saint’s either glitching or there’s a storm raging in his mind.
Death replaces all life in his eyes, forcing mine shut to chase it away. Epic fail, because not only do I sense death around me even more, I feel Saint around me even less.
I attempt to pull myself from his grip, but it’s useless since his nails are digging through my hoodie. Thank fuck this isn’t the case with the stun gun.
I free myself from the weapon, voice shaky as I call his name.
No response, so I try again.
It isn’t until I’m calling Saint’s name a third time that he blinks out of his stupor—allowing my imagination to return his scary features to their originalnon-scarystate.
After a few moments of recovery, Saint peers down at me, every muscle on his face taut.
“You crossed a line, Jimi,” he states matter-of-factly, and I don’t know why, but the lack of usual snark bothers me.
I know I crossed a line—and even kind of feel bad about it.
Regardless of how much he deserves to pay for Stevenson.
I tug my arm again, this time with caution. “Yeah…well…you stay crossing every one of mine.”
The moments that follow nearly drown me before he lets go to toss my stun gun on the table, allowing oxygen to enter my lungs for the first time in what feels like ages. That is, until out of nowhere Saint begins whistling a tune, swiping a white tank off the chair and shoving it on.
