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“Santino,” I whispered.
“Who else,” he said in my dream, “would be scary enough to chase the monsters away?”
“The biggest monster of all?” I guessed.
He flicked my lower lip. “Exactly.”
“You don’t look scary.” I still clung to him.
He tilted his head. “Because you only see what’s on the surface… but rip me open, and you’ll see horrors you’d wish you never knew existed.”
“I’ll hold onto you, then.”
“Do that.”
“No more nightmares.”
“I’ll stay watch.” He held me tighter.
And I swore to myself I’d hold him to it.
No more nightmares.
Only my assassin—Santino Sinacore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I would have kissed you harder. I would have fought for you more. I don’t know. I would have stolen you away, taken your virtue, made myself so permanently etched on your person that every time you took a breath it was my scent that was permeating the air.” ?Elite
Santino
I hadn’t sung since my mother’s death all those years ago—and I certainly hadn’t planned on opening my mouth and offering comfort to the one girl I was supposed to stay away from.
So far, I wasn’t exactly doing the best job at keeping my hands off her either—not that my hands or body seemed to mind.
She was so smooth and so afraid, and it just seemed like the only way to get her to truly focus was to rein her in by touch. She responded better that way, and I remembered when she was truly terrified, she’d reached for me like she was used to having that anchor.
Her twin.
She was used to being tethered to an anchor, and she’d lost that, and while I was a cruel cold bastard, I found I couldn’t actually live with myself if I didn’t at least try for the next few weeks to suck away her darkness. I had enough darkness of my own for hers to join, and maybe by the end of the month, she’d glow again, even if it meant I was even more labored with the stress of my job.
Everything had been too quiet since we’d attacked the night before. We were all waiting for retaliation, and because of that, maybe I was on edge, not thinking straight. Maybe I used her because I’d wanted to touch her.
Even though I knew I had no right to even be in the same room with someone like her, someone good, a survivor, when I was usually the one on the opposite end of that gun, torturing, killing, maiming.
Yeah, my hands were covered in sin.
Her body was covered in bruises from men like me.
I was suddenly disgusted that I even touched her or thought to reach out and take that privilege even if, in my own twisted mind, I thought I was helping.
I couldn’t sleep. So I laid down on the hard ground and realized that I would need to tread carefully, especially where she was concerned. It was too easy for her to weasel her way in. Too easy for me to want to care when all I ever promised her and Andrei was my gun and fists.
Her hand draped over the edge of the bed.
Her fingertips grazed my arm—I let them.
And I imagined a world where it was okay to let my thoughts drift into dangerous territory—where I was able to pull her close instead of taunt and tease.
