Sainted by Jesse H Reign

Author:Jesse H Reign [Reign, Jesse H]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-01-18T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Demon

As weird as it was to be kidnapped, being home is even weirder. My apartment feels strange. It’s light and vast, with large spaces dominated by glass and expanses of white. It feels different than usual. Lived in, and not by me. The guys Saint ‘handled’ at the safehouse were obviously spending time here. They brought gift baskets sent to me by friends/business partners/brown-noses into the apartment. They ate what they wanted, and they put the perishables in the fridge. If I’d known they were still roaming this plane, I’d be livid about it, but things being what they are, I’m grateful for the state of the place. If the cops were to drop in this second, it looks completely believable that I’ve been holed up here for over a week.

I take a long shower and slather a copious amount of the mask my dermatologist home makes and labels, In Case of Emergency Only, all over my face. Afterward, I wrap a towel around my waist and walk to my dressing room. I stop in my tracks in front of my long mirror. The frame is gold gilt. It’s so ornate and heavy, it took three men to hang it.

I must have seen my reflection in this mirror a thousand times. Maybe more. What I see now stops me dead. My hair’s wet, pushed back off my face. I’ve seen my skin look better. It’s a crisis for sure, but not a disaster. It’ll recover. It’s not the thing that gives me pause. What makes me stop moving is the trail of violet marks Saint sucked into me last night in the woods. I hardly felt them when he laid them into my skin, yet here they are. On my neck. On my chest. A cluster of them near my left collarbone. A trail of four, bitten into the V that leads to my groin. I push my towel down, to see if he left any others. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed when I only find one, hiding lower. I drop the towel to the floor and turn around, craning my neck to see the mauve smudges he made with the wooden spoon.

I feel hot when I see them. Agitated. I want to call out to him. “Asshole,” I want to say. “Asshole, come look at what you’ve done.” I want to see his face when he sees me like this. “What were you thinking?” I want to say. “Answer me, Saint, what were you thinking, leaving these marks on me?”

The urge to yell at him is strong. The urge to say his name is stronger and urgent. So strong, it makes me feel unsettled. I dress quickly, choosing a cream, structured top with a high, stiff funnel neck. I pair it with a pair of wide legged lounge pants and a soft leather obi belt that I knot in the waist.

I look in the mirror again. I like it. It’s subtle, but it’s giving Made a Lethal Virus My Bitch.

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