Page 90 of Hostile Saint

And having it be their fault.

I whispered again, “I’m so sorry,” imagining her child-body on one of those blankets. Her drugged and being—

On the brink of despair, I begged for God to help me.

Elle’s words floated through my heart. You can make life any flavor you want.

The only flavor I wanted was Lacey.

If that meant I had to walk, run, or fight through Hell before having my perfect flavor, then I would be a willing participant in life. I was willing to surrender anything. I was willing to never give up and keep trying for the safety of the prettiest girl in the whole world.

I thought of Lynx, claiming I was a Life Warrior. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was gifted enough to see the cost was worth the prize. No matter how many times I would have to pay.

Gently brushing hair from Lacey’s forehead, I thought about how, in high school, she was ignored by rich kids like the ones from tonight. Those boys wanted perfection in appearance. I wanted perfection in the heart. Lacey’s scars—her ‘imperfections’—made her perfect to me.

Tucked under a blanket, her body seized for a few seconds before her tears began. She made struggling noises in her nightmare. That fucking doctor was drugging her, trapping her with the enemy because she wasn’t able to wake and see she was now safe.

Without hesitation, I whispered, “I’m with you. I’m here. They won’t hurt you anymore.”

Against her pillow, her brows pursed.

Even though her eyes were closed, I nodded. “I’m here, Pretty Girl.”

My heart sighed when her hand grabbed mine. “Tate,” she whispered in fear, “they’re here. Hide.”

I laid my cheek to hers. “No. Only me. Let your mind have them fade away. They’re not here. Just see me.”

Her body released some tension as she whispered, “Just you.”

Affectionately, I rubbed my cheek to hers. “Just me.”

Her sudden gasp brushed my cheek.

Slowly, I lifted my head to see her eyes open.

“Tate.”

“You’re awake.”

Her sweet eyes creased as she smiled. “For you.” She spoke the words from her poem. “Hope for tomorrow.”

She had been writing of me.

Our connection grew…

I asked, “And, ‘regret into sorrow’?”

“Regret,” she licked her beautiful lips, “for not getting another kiss.”

I almost begged, Yes, please take one more of those, but instead, my voice cracked to say, “I brought you a shake.”

Yes, I was speaking of a dessert, but by the way she stared at me, I knew she understood what I was saying: I brought you my heart, my soul, my spirit, my hopes, which will always and forever be yours.

I knew this because she breathed, “evermore,” as she lifted her head from the pillow and kissed me.

How a kiss could make me ache and beg for more, all at the same time, was such a compliment to her ability to own me. My eyes slid shut when her mouth opened for more. A silky tongue reached for a swipe.

So. Fucking. Hungry to devour her sweetness, my hands fisted her blankets and mattress.