Eden

There’s a long, stiff pause before she sucks in a deep breath. “Why would you be so concerned about Dylan?”

There’s suspicion in her voice, and it makes me think she’s at least somewhat aware of what happened between Dylan and me. He probably confessed to our affair after James died, just to prepare her for the worst. Shit. That just makes this conversation that much more unbearable.

“I know he left Angelview to go back home for a while,” I say, scrambling to come up with some reason as to why I give a shit about her son without giving away the fact that I’m terrified for his life. “It was rather sudden, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay. It was important to me because of … James.”

I dig my free hand into Saint’s bedspreads to keep from slapping myself in the forehead the seconds James’s name leaves my lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies after a beat. “And even if I did know where he was, or how he was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

The click indicating the end of the phone call sounds before I can scramble to come up with a response. I lower the phone and shaky my head in frustration and defeat.

I still have no idea where Dylan is, and now I just reminded his mother that I exist and she should actively hate me.

Choking on a harsh breath, I glance down at my phone and wonder what in the hell I should do now.

And as I’m staring at the screen, something strange catches my eye on the screen.

Up in the left-hand corner is the icon telling me a video has been successfully processed. When did I take a video? I definitely don’t remember doing that in the last few hours.

Curious, I open my gallery and click on the footage. My heart slams into the walls of my chest the moment I realize that it’s my conversation with Jameson Angelle. The clip is about five minutes long, and in it, he threatens me and confesses to killing my father.

This is major. This is evidence. Hard evidence of a murder and the fact that Mr. Angelle was behind it, and he had done it to himself when he took my phone from me.

What do I do with this? Take it to the police? And say what? That one of the richest men in the country murdered his best friend and business partner because he wanted the man’s wife and money for himself? That all sounds like it belongs in a soap opera, not a police report.

I wonder if Mr. Angelle has friends in the police department? He has to have some. A guy can’t be that rich and powerful without greasing a few palms along the way.

I save the video, then back it up just to be safe.

Just as I’m exiting out of the video, the door to the room bursts open and Saint strolls inside.

I jump from the bed and rush to him.

“Saint—” My voice trails off when I see that his face is messed up and he’s covered in blood. “Oh, my God! What happened to you?”

I grab his arm and practically drag him to the bed, which I force him to sit on. With gentle fingers, I begin inspecting his face. There’s some bruising already forming on one cheek and swelling around the eyes. I don’t want to look down at the blood spattered all over his shirt and pants. Once thing at a time.

Just one goddamn thing at a time.

“You went to your dad,” I say as I carefully poke around a lump on the top of his head. “And it went off the rails?”

“Pretty much the moment I saw him,” he admits. He keeps talking as I head into the bathroom for some supplies to clean him up with, but I’m still listening intently when he continues, “I found him in the visitor parking lot. I meant to talk to him and ask him about everything he told you, but the second my eyes landed on him, I just saw red. I wanted to hurt him, badly, for everything he’s done to hurt you.”

Shit, there he goes being all noble again.

“It looks like he got some good hits in,” I point out as I set down the bandages, antiseptics, and wet cloth from the bathroom onto the bed next to him.

He sneers. “Don’t be fooled. The blood on my clothes is mostly from him, not me. I fucked him up real good.”

“On school property.”

“He won’t do a goddamn thing. My father likes to keep his secrets buried deep.”

He’s acting tough and proud of himself, but I know deep down, this has got to be killing him, so I press my lips to his cheek. “Thank you, Angelle.”

I slide my hand across his chest and move in to press my lips to his, but he turns his face away, catching me off guard.

“Okay,” I whisper.

His jaw it taut and his gaze is bleak. That takes me by surprise more than him pushing me away. Cupping his cheek, mindful of his injuries, I guide his face back toward mine.

“What is it?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

That’s never good, and with the year I’m having, I know it’s going to rock my world.

I sit next to him but keep several inches of space between our bodies. “I’m listening.”

Releasing a heavy sigh, he turns away from me to look straight ahead and runs both his hands through his hair. “Fuck,” he growls. “I hate this.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You know why we hadn’t had sex for so long before Hawaii?” he asks, completely throwing me off balance. Where’s he going with this?

“Um, no. I have no idea.”

His face contorts, as if he’s in physical pain, and he grits his teeth. “It’s because I found out something, and I couldn’t touch you. Didn’t want to taint you.”

He’s got my stomach roiling with anxiety now. “Saint, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me right this moment—”

“Remember what I told you about my thirteenth birthday? What my dad made me do?”

Vividly. I remember every detail of that conversation and it makes me want to vomit.

“When you told me about Nora and those women, I confronted him. And then he told me…”

When he trails off, another memory hits me square in the face, only this time it’s of the day Nora handfed me some of her truth. When I’d asked why Mr. Angelle had finally decided he was done with her five years ago. She’s sneered at me and rolled her thin shoulders.

“He offered me a way to earn my freedom,” she’d said, a tight, vicious smile quivering at her lips. “I performed. He lied. Good thing Ghost has a soft spot.”

“Ellis, I—” Saint starts, his voice gravelly, but I lift a hand between us, pressing my fingertip to his lips.

Sliding down to the floor, I squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s okay.”

But it’s not. Why did it have to be this way? Why did there have to be so much standing between us? It wasn’t fair.

When I look up at him again, he’s watching me, his jawline hard and a defensive look in his eyes. No doubt, he’s waiting for me to leave.

I’m not going to do that, though.

I get back up. Tuck myself into his lap. Wrap myself around him. “It’s okay,” I say again.

We stay this way for a long time—the god and the mortal—and when he finally speaks, it’s only to growl, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I draw away from him, my gaze wandering over his features. “How does this end?” I finally demand, my voice hoarse, my stomach twisting as he wipes dried blood from his face with one hand and skims the fingertips of the other over my collarbone.

“Just like it fucking started.” The look he slants me with is both fire and ice. Savage. “Badly.”

Leaning over, I grab my phone from the bedspread and hold it out to him. “I might have something that’ll help.”