Page 99 of Only Mine
TWENTY-THREE
WRENLEY
Saint is terrifying to look at for anyone who’s not me. The relief of seeing him is so vast that I want to weep.
Even though I hate that he sees me like this. With my mascara running and my arms clamped around my knees, my chest spasming in shallow, useless breaths.
But Saint doesn’t hesitate. He kneels, crowding into my small, tile-bound world.
The close-up sight of him, fierce and bloodless with worry, does the impossible. It jars me loose, just enough for my lungs to drag in a ragged, scraping inhale.
“Wrenley.”
I shake my head, nails digging into my shins.
“Look at me.”
He moves closer, so close I can feel the heat of him, the scent of smoke and basil and char surrounding me.
“You’re safe. Hear me?” His voice is a rasp, so rough it could sand down steel. “No one’s going to touch you. Not in my house.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and nod, but the images keep coming: hands around my throat, the weight of a body pinning me to the bed.
Saint’s hand settles on my back, warm and steady, not moving except for the pressure of his palm. He doesn’t try to haul me up. Doesn’t say anything more. He stays with me in the silence, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles through the fabric of my dress. I try to match my breathing to his. In, out. In, out. The rhythm is clumsy at first, but then his hand slides to the nape of my neck, grounding me. I cling to his wrist like a lifeline.
“Good,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”
I want to tell him I’m sorry that I ruined dinner, that I’m an embarrassment, but all I can do is swallow air.
He crouches closer, his knees bracketing mine.
“That’s it,” he says, and I realize he’s cradling my head to his chest, using his own heartbeat as the metronome. “Again.”
I breathe. I shake. I breathe again.
My phone buzzes on the tile.
Saint snatches it up and glances at the screen. His entire body goes still.
I watch his face change as he reads. Watch as the controlled chef transforms into something else entirely.
When his eyes meet mine, they’re nearly black.
“Who is this?”
The question is deceptively quiet.
“He’s—” The words stick. “Someone who?—”
“Your attacker.” Not a question. Saint’s pieced it together. “The one who hurt you. Who’s supposed to be locked up.”
I nod, mute.
Saint’s lips flatten to a line so thin it could slice through atoms. He lifts my quaking body in a single smooth motion,arms locked strong around me, and for a second, I think he might actually barrel through the wall with his rage alone.
Instead, he pivots and carries me down the back hall, away from the kitchen. Away from the eyes of line cooks and managers and servers with phone cameras.
He sets me gently onto a prep table behind walk-in doors, then crowds the space in front of me, blocking out everything but the pulse of heat between our bodies and the white tile behind his shoulder.
