Page 41 of Revenge Saints

That motherfucker watched us fall and didn’t flinch.

And now he’s here. Breathing our air. Walking through our base.

Afterher.

Aspen.

My sweet little doll.

He wants her. Wants to twist her up, use her like he used us, but he’s not going to touch a single hair on her head. Not while I’m alive. Not while any of us are.

Because she’s not his.

She’sours.

And I’ll die with blood on my hands and her name in my mouth before I let him take her.

The door swings open, and I sit up fast, biting down the groan that claws up my throat. No weakness. Not in front of anyone tied to Roman.

Sean walks in, calm, eyes taking me in like I’m a patient instead of a prisoner.

“Easy, son,” he says. “You’ll break the stitches.”

The softness throws me off. That’s not how Roman’s men operate.

“I’m fine,” I grunt, eyes scanning him for a weapon I can snatch. Nothing obvious. He’s smart, then. Or cautious.

He holds out a can of beans and an apple. My stomach tightens, clenches like it hasn’t seen food in days, because it hasn’t.

I frown. Why the fuck is he being nice?

He catches the suspicion in my silence and smirks. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He chuckles and pulls a leather pouch from his satchel and lays out bandages with precision.

I nod, one stiff jerk, and take the food. It’s not hot, barely warm, but the first bite is enough to bring a weird sense of comfort.

“You were a doctor?” I ask between bites, watching him as he waits, quiet and unbothered.

“Surgeon,” he says, a small, tired smile ghosting over his lips.

“Must’ve been hell during the plague,” I mutter, not looking up. Can’t imagine stitching up bodies while the world bled out.

“It was,” he says, eyes turning glassy. “Especially when it took my wife and son.”

His words cut the silence.

I pause, spoon mid-air, finally meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, low, unsure why the words even come out.

He gives a slow nod, more to himself than to me. “We all lost loved ones, right?” he says, eyes on the can in my hand. “Well, since you’ve eaten, let me take a look.”

I sit up, bracing for the sting. He moves in, quiet and efficient.

“So, you’re a soldier too,” he says, gently peeling the bandage from my side. His hands are soft, practiced. I barely feel the touch, just the burn underneath.

“Something like that,” I grit out, my jaw clenching as he hits a raw nerve. “Mercenary.”