Page 55 of Wicked Vile King
Like he is God.
In the stretching shadows, where the light from above doesn't quite reach, Saint stands there like a wraith, his tan skin having lost almost all its color over the past few weeks, leaving him a ghost of who he was before. Maybe he is a ghost. He's not supposed to be out yet. Surely, Dr. Cross would've told me.
If he had known.
No, I refuse to believe it. He can't be real. I blink once, twice, three times, and wish for him to go away.
"You aren't real," I say to him, and I don't know if it's for my benefit or for his. Probably mine, I suppose.
He takes a single step out of the darkness toward me, and I don't move. Then he takes another and another andanother, until we are standing less than a foot apart, the toes of his boots nearly caressing my shoes. He leans in and lets the hot breath of his words kiss my lips andburnas he murmurs, "Tell me. Does this feel real, pet?"
Oh God.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no, no, NO!
In a single blink, he grabs me by the throat, his large hand lightning fast and squeezing tight. Then he backs me up against the wall behind me, my feet stumbling to catch up and nearly sending me falling to my ass. When my skull collides with the wall and the world shakes on impact, his fingers cinch even tighter, cutting off my air. His words slice across his teeth before they land like daggers slashing across my skin.
"Did you miss me?" he hisses.
"No," I manage but just barely. It's so soft, I'm not even sure I hear it.
Liarspits the voice inside my head.You're a freak, Willow Mae, a freak who craves a psychopath's touch and who wants him to scare away all your nightmares.
Saint squeezes even tighter and pulls me up the wall by my throat, until I'm on the tips of my toes, trying to breathe.
My lungs burn for air.
"You'll," I gasp, "get,"gasp, "hole,"gasp, "again."
It's broken. I'm not sure the words make sense, but it's all I can get out.
He laughs at that, low and dark, and the sound skitters up my flesh and warms me all over until I smolder beneath his touch.
"You're not going to tell, pet," he says. "One because you want to remain upright. And two, because you missed me, and we both fucking know it."
"Did not," I try to say, but I can't manage it now. His hand is too tight, cutting off the words.
He relaxes his grip just a little, and I suck in a strangled breath.
"Did not," I repeat.
Maybe a little. Definitely a lot.What the hell is wrong with me?
My denial makes him smile, and I hate it when he smiles because it's not fake, not ever for me at least. There's genuine amusement in his grin, and I don't want to know why he finds it so amusing. Unfortunately, he answers the question for me a half-second later.
"You're afraid, pet," he tells me, his words delivered hot and thick. "You're afraid that deep down beneath that good girl persona you like to wear is someone just as deranged as me."
"I'm nothing like you," I say as I look past him, down the stacks, as a guard walks on by and pretends he doesn't see us.
Fucking coward.
Saint glances over his shoulder, spots the fleeing guard, and chuckles darkly.
"Let me break it down for you, pretty girl," he says, his fingers squeezing tighter, until in my desperation, I claw at his hands, trying to get free. He acts like he can't even feel it. "They don't care about you. Or me. Or what I do to you. This place is designed to keep you in line, to break you, and if I help them along, so fucking be it."
"Touch me," I swallow, gritting my teeth, my voice hoarse and barely audible, "and my father will kill you."
