No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  That’s when I notice the blood darkening his hair. “Holy crap. Did Josh do this? Let me have a look.”

  “Why were you at my house?” I ask, just for something to say, but also curious.

  He doesn’t reply, quiet as I get up to check the wound, parting his bloody hair to see the extent of the damage.

  Why was he there?

  He hisses when I poke at the gash but doesn’t flinch away. “Josh is your little brother?”

  “Yeah, the very same. Sorry about that. He thinks he’s protecting me or something.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  I let that slide, refuse to bite and ask what he means. “He got you a good one. You’re lucky he didn’t crack your skull.”

  “Proud of him?”

  I shudder. “No, of course not. Violence is never the way to solve problems. I’ll talk to him. He’ll listen.”

  “You really believe that?

  “What? That he’ll listen?”

  He grunts, and I’m not sure if he’s amused or annoyed. “That violence is not the way.”

  “Yeah. I believe it.” I dab at the wound with the towel, sucking my lower lip between my teeth in concentration. “You know you should see a—

  “—doctor. Yeah, no fucking way.”

  I frown. “You could have a concussion, or internal bleeding. Head wounds are tricky, Ross.”

  “And I could die, yeah, whatever. Who the hell cares?”

  My heart does that twisting, hurting thing again.

  “Why do you keep saying those things?” I ask frustrated and sit down beside him, squeezing the towel in my hands.

  “Because they’re true,” he whispers, not looking at me. “You need to hear the truth.”

  “Ross...”

  “That violence you don’t believe in? That’s the language I know.” His strong hands are clenching and unclenching on his thighs, painted red with his blood. “That’s all I know.”

  My eyes burn. “I do. I care, okay? I care whether you live or die. Look...” I jump to my feet, unable to just sit there, so helpless. “I’ll go get the medic kit from home, clean that wound out.”

  “No. Fuck, don’t go.” He’s on his feet, swaying a little, grabbing at my arm, and his ashen face scares me to death. “Don’t.”

  “Fine, sit down. Please.” I sink back down on the bench and tug him along until he’s slumped beside me. “Did Josh hit you elsewhere? He threw a few rocks before I got to him.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He’ll never admit he’s hurt, I realize, and what’s more, I don’t think it’s a macho thing. He sounds like someone used to taking care of himself, of licking his wounds in the dark and pretending everything’s okay.

  A quick patting down finds a few sore spots on his legs, one on his side. He hisses when I start lifting his T-shirt, but it’s the cuts he got last week. They look red and puffy.

  “I said I’m fine,” he says.

  But he’s not. He looks roughed up, exhausted, his face too pale, his hair encrusted with blood, a line of it darkening the side of his face, seeping into the hem of his T-shirt. He looks kind of thin, despite the muscles, his cheeks gaunt, and his light blue eyes are feverishly bright.

  He’s still a heart-breaker. How can this boy be so handsome? It’s not fair. There were plenty of nice boys at the school I attended when I moved in with Aunt Emily—and I didn’t care for any of them. I was never miss popularity and could never pass for a super model, but there was some interest, and it went a long way in restoring my confidence, giving rise to the new me.

  But they never made my breath catch like Ross.

  “I want to help you,” I whisper. “Something’s wrong. You’re not okay.”

  “Just sit with me,” he says, and even his voice is thin and tired. He grips my arm, his hold almost bruising, his gaze so faraway he might as well be on a distant moon. “Sit and I’m gonna tell you a story...”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ross

  I’m not a storyteller, never had fairytales read to me as a kid, and never enjoyed books much, but right now my fried brain can’t come up with any better ways to keep her here—and I need her to stay. I have this sudden irrational fear she’ll go and not come back.

  My mind’s been a blur for days and nights, and seeing her, kissing her, getting her off at the garage only made the confusion worse. Then I took a rock to the head, and yeah, well... let’s just say it didn’t help any. My head’s killing me, my body aches, and I feel like I’m about to crash, fall to fucking pieces.

  Christ, I wish I knew what’s the matter with me these days. She’s sat back down but I’m keeping a death grip on her arm, my fingers cramping and feeling like she’s my lifeline. That if I let go, I’ll drown.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “What story?” she whispers, and I don’t know why she keeps her voice low, but I like it. It sooths my frayed nerves. She smells sweet like always, her curls tickling my cheek, something flowery mingling with her scent. She’s warm and soft and says she worries about me and she’s everything.

  Everything I want and can’t have, and it’s my own fucking fault.

  “Ross?” Still with that soft, gentle voice. She leans slightly into me, and I wanna pull her on top of me, curl around her, keep her.

  “There was a boy,” I say, deciding I’ll make up a story on the spot, just fucking anything to prolong this moment. “A boy in a house by the river, who had a secret and half a family. He liked sitting by the water, throwing pebbles into the stream, and climbing the trees. A loner, always, a wolf cub by necessity.”

  “Why?” I almost didn’t hear her question, her voice just a breath. “Why was he so alone?” she clarifies for me, and I frown.

  “He had a dog,” I explain, “a stray he took in. Bandit. Kept it a secret for as long as he could, but Bandit broke his leg one day, and his dad took it away. Shot it. I... the boy heard the sound, it echoed through the trees.”

  I’m shivering and dunno why. My teeth are chattering.

  “Ross...” She rubs the palm of her hand on my thigh, over my knee, and it shoots pleasurable sparks up my leg. I focus on her hand, on how small and pale it is. Unmarked. Perfect. “What happened then?”

  “He said... said pets are for pussies. Taking care of pets and animals, feeling affection, that’s for sissies. Said if I turned out to be a faggot, he’d shoot me in the dick, so I’d better stop testing him. Said if I fucking cried, he’d beat me senseless and dump my body in the woods.” I shake my head, run a hand through my hair, tug on the stiff strands. “But I didn’t.” I frown harder and have to clarify. “I didn't cry.”

  When I glance up, she’s giving me a funny, sideways look, her eyes a bit too bright. See, I knew I wasn’t a good storyteller. “What happened to the boy?”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” Fuck, my heart hurts. “He couldn’t have friends. His dad promised he’d punch their teeth in. Nobody could get close, nobody could see...” I have to stop and breathe, dark spots dancing in my eyes. “Nobody.”

  “He didn’t want them to see the bruises?” she whispers, her voice sounding odd, hushed.

  “That, too,” I agree and wince.

  The bruises, the emptiness, the howling void inside, and the scars on my back and shoulders that he put there, itching and pulling every so often, when the weather changes or when I strain my back lifting heavy crates at work.

  Also when a beautiful girl is beside me, apparently.

  What am I doing? The tattoo inked over my ribs burns like a brand—or is it those damn knife slashes? They’ve been hurting like a bitch.

  I’m so fucking tired, my mind fuzzy and full of cobwebs. There’s only one clear thought, so bright it’s blinding, filling my head, my chest, my body, and it’s that I need her. My head’s heavy, but when she shifts against me, my body still reacts. I’d have to be dead not to react to this girl.

  I wonder what she’s doing here, beside me, when she could be with any other, decent guy
. A girl like her shouldn’t have trouble getting any guy she wants. It used to make me hot with anger and so damn confused thinking about that, realizing I never stood a chance with her.

  But then the trickle of blood down the side of my head reminds me why she’s here. Her stupid brother threw rocks at me. He knows I’m not good enough for her.

  Maybe not so stupid after all, that kid.

  The trees are closing over me, caging me, and yet it’s peaceful as I fall back, staring up at the canopy. It’s eating up the sky as the branches tangle up and twist, forming a roof, a dome of darkness. I can finally let go, and it’s such a fucking relief I wanna cry.

  But the canopy breaks, and the ground starts sucking me down, a giant maw opening to swallow me.

  Luna is tugging her arm free of my hold, shaking me. “Ross. Hey, Ross...”

  Startling me awake. “Hm. What?”

  Fuck. I hadn’t realized I’d dozed off. I rub at my eyes. They feel dry and hot, spikes of pain spearing through my skull.

  “Those cuts under your ribs,” she says, “they’re infected. I think you’re running a fever.”

  Fuck, for real? That might explain a few things. Like for instance why I’m sitting here with her talking her ear off and then nodding off instead of kissing her and getting down and dirty with her.

  “I’m okay,” I croak and I sound as fucked as I feel.

  Awesome.

  “Let me have another look,” she says, and the concern I paint in her voice is setting off all sorts of alarms in my head, because I like it too fucking much.

  Again.

  “You wanna get me naked, woman, why don’t you admit it,” I drawl.

  “Shut up, Ross.” But she cracks a grin, and it lifts a weight off my chest I didn’t realize was there. Her fingers slip under the hem of my black T-shirt and start lifting. “I just want to see how bad it is. Didn’t get a good look earlier.”

  Resigned, tired, I let my head fall back against the wooden wall as she prods and presses painfully around the cuts. Dammit, they shouldn’t hurt like that. I never thought Ed and his cronies would come at me with a knife.

  Weird, right? Feeling so damn shitty in the days that followed, I never dwelled on that much. Did they intend to use that knife on Luna? That son of a bitch. Or...

  Or was he waiting for me? They have to know I live close by. They used her as bait once before, I know that, but never paid it that much attention, as to the why. Why use her? Why bait me?

  Were they waiting to kill me?

  I shake my head at these thoughts—no fucking way, right? This has to be the fever talking—when I realize she’s pulling my T-shirt further up.

  “No, leave it.” I catch her fingers, stop her before she gets it up all the way. Can’t have her seeing things I don’t want her seeing. “I’m okay. Feeling better already, see?”

  “Are you now?”

  “Yeah. If you wanted to get in my pants, you only had to say.”

  “Oh God, I believe you. You’re starting to sound more like yourself.”

  “Is that a backhanded compliment?”

  “Nope, not a compliment at all. God, you’re so full of yourself.”

  She’s still grinning, though.

  Huh.

  “And we need to clean out that head wound before it gets infected too. I should go grab that medic Kit from home.”

  “Don’t go yet...”

  “But you don’t have any antiseptic.”

  A thought strikes me. “I have tequila.”

  “...Tequila. You serious right now?”

  “As a heart attack.” I lift a hand to her cheek. Silky skin. Silky curls, brushing my scarred knuckles. “Hey, Luna...”

  There’s something I got to ask her, but it keeps slipping from my mind.

  “That tattoo you have,” she whispers, and seems to be leaning into my touch. Bolder, I trace her face, her brows.

  “What about it?”

  “Why a swan?”

  Ah fuck. She keeps catching me off guard.

  “My mom.” I have to swallow past a knot in my throat. “She had this pendant, you know. A silver swan. She always wore it, and when she left...” Fuck this fever, for making my eyes burn like that. “I thought she’d left, and as time passed, I started to forget her face but I could remember the swan, and later...”

  My voice has gone out. What the fuck. The words are stuck, something stopping any sound from coming out, any air from getting in. My lungs constrict, my chest aches.

  “Okay,” she says, still speaking so soft, like velvet brushing over me. “Okay.”

  She doesn’t ask for more and I don’t tell her how, later, when I gathered enough money, I went and had it inked so I wouldn’t forget her. I thought I’d see her again someday.

  But of course I wouldn’t. Never again. The swan on my skin, the pendant in my pocket, the faded photographs in the box under my childhood bed, that’s all I have left of her.

  “Ross... come here.” She turns and smooths both her small hands over my face, her palms cool on my heated skin, tugging me down until I’m looking down at her, her wide eyes, her soft mouth, her flushed cheeks.

  And she kisses me.

  What did I do? I must’ve done something...right, for her to initiate it, or am I going nuts? For the first time, she’s the one stroking my face, moving her lips over mine—too damn gently when I have to fight the urge to haul her on top of me and invade that sweet mouth with my tongue, bite her, mark her, make her mine.

  I make myself stay very still while she explores the corners of my mouth, tracing its shape, then the dimple above my upper lip. Her clever little tongue parts my lips, drags along mine, a whisper of friction and I’m so fucking unbearably hard I’m about to bust a nut.

  Jesus Christ. What’s she doing to me? My head feels too fucking light, and I can’t tell if it’s the fever or my blood rushing south.

  Then she’s breaking the kiss and sliding down to her knees, between my legs. My fuddled brain takes a long moment to process this.

  “What... are you doing?” Seeing her face so close to my crotch is so fucking sexy, but I need her to stay and can’t risk fucking this up by misunderstanding. “Luna.”

  “I want to see you.” She starts undoing my jeans, button by button, and okay, can’t argue with that. Anything that gets her close to my hard-on is good, even if she only wants to ogle the goods. I should be content with that, with the kissing, the touching, just everything.

  But she is between my legs, and my smartass mouth can’t be stopped. “Now I see why you’re here. You wanna see my dick. Admit it, sweets. You want me.”

  Her green eyes flash up at me, fringed with thick lashes, a spark dancing in their middle. It’s strangely fascinating, and I lean forward to frown at it.

  She looks away.

  “In the garage,” she says, “you got me off. I’m returning the favor. I don’t like having debts.”

  I have trouble processing what she’s saying. “What the hell?” Might be the fuzziness in my head, might be her proximity to my hard-on.

  What can I say, it’s a toss-up.

  She sticks out her tongue at me, confusing me even more—hell, was she serious or not, about it being payback?—and then distracts me again by pulling my pants down, freeing my cock so that it slaps against my stomach.

  And then I can’t think anymore, because she leans in close, her warm breath washing over my twitching, aching hard flesh, and puts her hand on it.

  Just rests her delicate hand on top of my hard-on, and my balls lift, excruciatingly tight, drawing a groan from deep inside my chest. She smirks up at me, as if she can’t see I’m about to shoot my load all over her face, and strokes her hand along the underside of my cock, finding the piercings and lingering there.

  Oh God. Oh fuck... I shift on the bench, arching into her touch, panting.

  Goddamn, you’d think I’m a fucking virgin from the way my body responds to her. No other chick will ever do it for me
after this, I think.

  And she’s only toying with the two silver barbells under the head, making me hiss at the intense pain/pleasure. Normally I forget they’re there, but when I’m rock hard like now, it makes everything tighter, every touch another spark feeding this burning want.

  “Never seen a pierced...” She licks her lips and I almost groan again. “A pierced penis before.”

  “If you call my dick a “penis” again, I’ll lose my erection and go all soft on ya,” I warn her, only half joking.

  She laughs, a light airy sound, a trickle of air on my dick that has me arching again. “A pierced dick, then.”

  “Seen many dicks, have you?” I try for nonchalant and teasing, but it’s hard to pull off when I’m still panting like I’ve been running a marathon. My balls ache. My dick twitches.

  Her cheeks turn a deep crimson. “Maybe I have.”

  A growl rises in my throat, startling me. “Whose dick?” I’d been kidding, but now I’m freaking jealous of any guy she’s been with.

  Oh God, I’m so fucked.

  And she’s still holding my dick.

  That laugh again. “Why would you think I have been with anyone? At school you made sure I knew I was too ugly and stupid to ever get a guy.”

  “I was the stupid one,” I mutter, and it’s God’s honest truth. “I bet men line up to be with you. You’re so fucking pretty.”

  She looks away. I wonder if she thinks I’m fucking with her. Hard to believe a guy’s compliments when he’s obviously hoping you’ll give him a little handjob.

  Hell, I’d settle for some more toying and stroking, if that’s what she wants to give me. My dick and me would be so happy, even if I meant every word I just said to her.

  She doesn’t comment, though, and she lifts her head. I don’t know what else to say to keep her here, handjob or not. I’ve told her stories, told her things I shouldn’t have, at least that’s what my fuzzy memory tells me, and she’ll probably just go like she’s been threatening to do since she arrived.

  But instead she curls her fingers around my cock and squeezes, almost giving me a heart attack. Fuck, I’d die happy if she did it again.