“Do you?”
“Depends.”
“On the context?”
A low hum was all Saint had.
It was all I needed. I put the gun down and showed him the crossbow. “This is the weapon our fearless leader believed shot anarrowat his would-be assassin.”
Saint’s full lips twitched. “That annoys you?”
“No.”
“He’s not fearless.”
“And he should not be. A man without fear is not a man at all.”
Saint put the crossbow down and toyed with a knife that seemed to fit better in his palm. His gaze darkened and I knew where his thoughts had gone: to Cam’s glazed eyes and stampeding pulse on the cliff edge a few days ago. But I had no words to comfort him. It had unnerved me too. Cam deserved better than to be haunted by what lesser men had done to him, and it destroyed me that I could not fix it.
“He’s...” Saint stopped and swallowed hard.
I retreated to the living room and poured him a small measure of vodka.
The crystal tumbler looked strange in his honest hands.
His throat as he tipped the drink down was magical.
“I don’t drink vodka.”
Ignoring the weapons cache, I lifted myself to the counter and coaxed him to stand between my legs. “I know. Take your time, wingman. I am listening.”
Tension vibrated through Saint’s strong frame. I busied myself exploring him the way Cam often did, breathing him in, acclimating my spiky soul to his. Saint believed himself to be a black and messy hole, but there was peace to be found in him if I searched hard enough. And I did. Addicted, remember? Powerless. I could not look away if I tried.
I did not try. I kissed his colourful neck. It was enchanting.Hewas enchanting. I wanted to fuck him. I wanted him to fuck me. But it was not our time.
Not yet, if ever, but I did not mind that either. It was the first lesson inSaint Malonethat Cam had ever taught me: that in whatever capacity you were lucky enough to have him, he was enough.
“He’s not okay.” Saint murmured the words against my jaw. “Decoy thinks he has PTSD.”
“You discussed this with Decoy?”
“No. He saw something and came to me. He wouldn’t say it to anyone else.”
“Did he say anything about Ivy?”
Saint reared back. “Why would he?”
“A while ago, Cam was worried she had seen him get shot. He remembers her being there, but I am not sure those memories are chronological.”
“She didn’t see shit. She’d have told her dad.”
“Are you sure?” I saw in his eyes that he was. Accepted it. “Decoy might be right. But there is not much in your world to fix it but time.”
“You told him not to become you. What did you mean?”
“That he is alive with all that he feels, the good and the bad. To vault your emotions... it is hard to undo.”
Saint rubbed my hands, then my forearms and biceps. I did not think he was aware he was doing it anymore. A reflex that I enjoyed very much and could only compare to the calming hand he often laid over Cam’s big heart.