Page 15 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

Then kicking and pounding until finally it swings open, revealing a scowling, shirtless Saint.

As hard as it is, I refuse to allow myself a taste of eye candy.

Saint’s scowl widens into a mischievous smile. “Hey there, Jimi. Fancy seeing you here.”

With zero chill, I slap him in the face.

Saint barely blinks. In fact, he’s still smiling.

For a few seconds we partake in a hot and cold stare down, until Saint breaks it with an eyeroll, slamming the door in my face.

My temper flares, and I’m seconds away from another assault on the door when it swings open, this time by none other than the mega bitch Annalie.

Her lips twist into a grimace as she examines every inch of me, specifically where cleavage is peeking out behind the zipper of my hoodie.

I’m never one to body shame, I believe every woman is unique and beautiful, but I need to hit this girl where it hurts—the same way she tries to with me.

So, I look down at the chest hiding behind her bodycon mini dress and pout, mouthing the words, “Too bad, so sad.”

With a pathetic screech, Annalie stomps past me, and I don’t give her a second thought as I storm into the room and slam the door behind me.

Through dim yellow light I find Saint leaning back against a table with hands pressed on top of it. Still shirtless, jeans open and displaying black boxer briefs tight against the prominent V that is his abdomen.

Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.

Don’t you fucking do it, Hendrix.

Saint’s thumb finds the elastic rim of his briefs and runs a line behind them. “See somethin’ you like, Jimi?”

I hate that this became his catchphrase.

So much I refuse to acknowledge it.

After a long beat of silence, Saint exhales a bored sigh. “I assume you’re here to avenge your little doggy.”

“Stevenson is not a dog.” My feet move on their own accord to stomp over to him. “He’s human. And you really fucking hurt him.”

When coming to a halt, I make it a point to step on the toes of his pretty white Jordans. Hard. Saint is unfazed as he looks down at the scuff marks I leave behind on his sneakers. “Spare me the scolding,” he blinks up at me, “your precious Stevie is fine.”

“He is not fine. He’s got the burns to prove it.”

“The size of what? Pimples?” Saint bursts out in a fit of laughter. “Fuck, Jimi. I’ve got hickies larger than that.”

Judging by the cooch that just left I’d imagine sores too.

With a murderous growl, I pull the mini stun gun I spent over an hour learning to use from my hoodie pocket and stab him right in the neck with it.

“Care to test your theory, asshole?” I press the trigger slightly, just enough to know it’s working, but nowhere near enough to satisfy me.

Point proven as Saint pushes off the table, unbothered by the fact he’s one more pull away from doing the Electric Slide.

I watch hesitantly as he glances up at a lantern suspended over our heads, reaching for it and pushing gently—allowing light to dance around us through the shadows of the room.

When Saint looks down at me, his eyes are filled with so much life it’d be impossible for a stranger to believe darkness hides inside them.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask.

“To set the mood.”

I shove the stun gun harder into his neck.

“You did that three days ago.”

His glare sharpens. “Oh really…how so?”

“By hurting an innocent guy for no reason.”

“Oh, I had a reason,” he shoots back, voice rising a few octaves.

“What? A bruised ego?”

Saint’s upper lip twitches.

“C’mon, Jimi, you should know better by now.”

“And why the fuck is that?”

“Because of how much we’re alike.”

“We are nothing alike.”

“Go ahead and keep lying to yourself, but I know the truth. It’s written all over the murder in your eyes.” Saint bites his bottom lip suggestively. “Seeing you like this turns me on, not gonna lie.”

I am nothing like him.

I don’t deliberately try to hurt people, threaten, or make a mockery of someone just for kicks.

Use my status as a means to do despicable things.

I’m not perfect on any scale, but I don’t pretend to be either. Your girl knows full well she’s got flaws, some of which are worse than others.

And, since I’m doing the honest thing, I won’t lie and say there aren’t flames burning steadily inside me, always one harsh insult shy of striking hot. They’ve come fixed like a thermostat, set long before I had the ability to feel the heat.

There’s a strong sense of power that comes from knowing the damage I can cause—my flaw lies in the need to have all of it.

So, yeah, I harbor some darkness.

That doesn’t make us the same.

Because, unlike Saint, my punishment always fits the crime.

Like right now, as I raise my knee with a jerk, striking him in the nuts.

You bet your ass he reacts this time, because not even a royal cock can withstand the force of a dick-shot.

Choking out a breath, he hunches over, and without removing the gun I follow suit. Then, with a saccharine sweet smile, I tell him, “And seeing you like this turns me on… not gonna lie .”

“Cheap shot, Jimi and you know it,” Saint replies, voice strangled.

“Yeah, well, I learn from the best.”

A dose of anger twists his face when he peers at me. “You really think that pussy is innocent?”

Compared to the rest of the jerks in this school, Stevenson is hands down one of the kindest, and it boggles my mind how the worst of the worst thinks he’s in a position to judge anyone.

With a shove to fix him upright, I say, “Damn straight. I mean…what did Stevenson ever do to you? Other than fuck the only girl in school you can’t?”

Saint’s bright eyes darken, a regular indicator of his changing mood, along with the creeping chill drifting from him.

They put me on edge, but not enough to back down.

Because, like his fellow Royal Heathens, Saint may have a nasty mean streak, but he’s done a lot of protecting his friends from bad shit this year.

Even me.

Which is why, despite the temperature swings, I don’t believe Saint would ever truly hurt me.

Which is also why I won’t allow fear of chance to outweigh my anger. Or the need for revenge.

“What’s the matter, Letterman? I strike a nerve?”

In one smooth movement Saint reaches for the stun gun, yanking it from my hand to turn the tables.

“Maybe.” He pulls me close by tucking the gun under my chin. “But I bet I could strike a few of yours too.”

I sneak a hand behind my back, readying myself for the larger stun gun covered by my leggings. “Go ahead, shoot me. Hurt me. I know how much you want to.”

Saint rears his head, and a flicker of surprise, maybe even offense, softens the features of his face. Reminding me once again of his ability to be a decent human.

It does nothing to feed those pesky flames inside me.

Because I’m not looking for revenge on the decent human, I’m looking for revenge on the piece of shit—and Saint doesn’t get to choose which version of him suffers the consequences.

Given these irritating factors, I cross my arms in front of me, swayed by little need for another concealed weapon. “Don’t get soft on me now, Letterman. You didn’t even get to come.”

Like the flick of a wand, Saint’s softness goes poof, and in its place is a grin one would only expect from a Cheshire cat.

“You’re right, Jimi.” His fingers walk their way along the length of my abdomen. “But I recall a time I didn’t let you come either.”

Those words bring the world around me to a screeching halt, and my heart sinks like a ship in my chest.

After months… months …of making me sweat, Saint chooses now , when I’m furious at him, to finally speak the truth.

“What are you…” My words trail off along with my train of thought. I’m so flustered and dizzy I don’t even realize Saint’s got his hand between my legs until he squeezes my inner thigh.

“Don’t look so surprised, Jimi. We both know this is what you wanted.” With his lips brushing my ear, he adds, “Me before you…admitting I was the one in the closet that day. Touching, tasting your sweet pussy.”

The callous nature of his tone sends me reeling into a whirlwind of shame, rage, and extreme regret. For both allowing him to touch me that way and wanting to hear him say he did.

I thought having Saint admit it first would help me sidestep the embarrassment, but—judging by how he’s already dangling the truth over my head like a bone—I can tell it was a grave mistake to not let this sleeping dog lie.

Accepting the fact my revenge took a dreary turn, I slap away Saint’s hand, along with the stun gun we both know he won’t be using.

“Yeah, and I wish I never let you.”

“Let me?” Saint questions with sheer mockery. “Baby, you were straight up begging me for more.”

I let out an incredulous laugh, hoping it sounds convincing because he’s right. I wanted so much more from him that day, and a part of me, albeit the stupid one, still does.

Saint’s entire being is infectious, but I'd rather die from his virus than dare to treat it.

“Sorry, Charlie. You must have me confused with one of your whores. My guess? The redheaded one.”

Once again, I feel the shift in Saint the moment it happens.

Some call it instinct, others a gut feeling.

I’ve chosen to call this keen sense of awareness my Psycho Intuition. I’ve all but mastered it the past seven months. But even masters learn their lessons, which is why I can feel the hurt from what Saint says next before I hear it.

"Yeah, well, my money’s on the one who let me finger fuck her in a closet.”

And there it is.

The catalyst. Saint’s true point of no return.

The cruelty in his rebuttal plays on repeat in my head, allowing for the flames to grow and spread through me like wildfire, heating the surface of my skin in seconds.

I scream silently through the pain, flames not easing up until I’m seared open from the inside out, with nothing left but my mouth to try and burn him.

So, I do. I use my words like a blow torch, knowing full well the quickest road to Saint’s heart, and how it’s been paved by someone else.

And this someone else just so happened to show up on the same night he hurt Stevenson.