Page 76 of The Tenth Circle

Because I have no doubt the Saint from last night would keep my tongue as a prize trophy.

“Tell me…which is it, Saint? Greed or pride?”

He lets go of me to think about the question, and something about it earns me a wolfish grin.

“I prefer lust.”

The heck does me meanlust?

What did I even ask?

This guy is a walking, talking conundrum. I can’t keep up.

My face must show what I’m thinking, because Saint quirks a brow. “Are we not listing deadly sins?”

“No, you fucking idiot. I’m talking about what blinds you from seeing any picture other than the ones you paint.”

He brushes, probably nothing, off my shoulder. “I mean…the art classes have definitely been paying off.”

Each time Saint’s pendulum swings, it carries residual energy from all his moods. The sides of him becoming so fused together it’s nearly impossible to tell where the crazy ends and charm begins.

I doubt Saint even has a clue.

With a hand scraping down my face, I spring off the bed.

“Get the fuck out of my room.”

Another swing back and forth.

“And if I don’t? You’ll…what? Run and tellMommy?”

Rage fills my gut to the brim hearing him refer tomymom as mommy.

“Let’s make one thing clear.” I pause, stabbing him with a finger. “My mother plays no part in whatever this is between us.”

Saint’s laugh is nothing short of menacing. “Talk about delusional. You actually think there’s still something between us.”

In no way was I referring to a special something, but I guess I can see why his narcissism would interpret it that way.

And even if he is right…that a twisted friendship or hateship has formed between us…there’s no fucking way I’d consider it astill.

Not after last night.

Definitelynot after this morning.

“I was talking animosity.”

“Well, I’m talkingnothing.”

My ability to decipher his meaning is cut off by a hand snaking into my hair. “No veils. No escape. No means to an end.” Saint pulls my head to the side, granting himself access to my neck and the hickey Stevenson left on it a few days ago.

A low rumble forms in Saint’s throat—almost as if it’s bothering him. Such a ridiculous idea given the amount of debauchery he’s been a part of.

“Your flair for the dramatics is getting real old, Letterman. So, if you’re gonna fucking hurt me, just do it already.”

Saint tugs harder, making me hiss, but not at all in the way I’d expect. The pain is exhilarating, just like the fear was when I met him, both known separately to be quite dangerous.

But together?