Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple
I already know it’s Cole.
He’s been stalking me all week. I’ve seen him on the street outside my house, and at the cafe across from Sweet Maple. He knows I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t care. He hasn’t tried to bang on my door or force me to eat brunch with him again.
He’s just watching. Waiting.
Standing guard.
That chill now runs from the nape of my neck all the way down my spine.
I finally understand.
Cole’s not watching me. He’s watching for Shaw.
Stay away from him. He’s dangerous. I’m not fucking joking.
It’s too dark to see the details of Cole’s face, not with the rain plastering his hair down over his eyes.
He can see me, though. Brightly lit, clean, and dry, framed in this window.
I press my palm flat against the glass.
How can I be so afraid of someone, and yet I can’t bring myself to run? I don’t want to run from Cole. I want to stand still while he comes to me, and then I want to reach up and touch his face. I want to pull off the masks, one by one, until there isn’t any left. And then, whatever is underneath . . . I want to see it.
He terrified me, the night of the Halloween party. He did it on purpose. Deliberately flashing his fangs, because he wanted to scare me away from Shaw.
Why?
Because he wants to keep me safe.
No matter how insane that sounds, it’s what I believe.
Cole wants to keep me safe. It’s why he’s spent countless hours watching me, when he has the whole city at his disposal, when he could be doing anything else.
I walk back to the dryers, checking the remaining time.
Twelve minutes.
I lean against the glass, eyes closed, my whole body rocked by the hulking industrial machine. These dryers are probably older than I am. Each one the size of a compact car. Each with a powerful engine.
The bell above the door lets out a gentle chime as someone enters.
I keep my face pressed against the glass, eyes closed.
I hear him coming up behind me, though no one else would hear those careful, measured steps.
I can even hear the lonely sound of each breath entering and exiting his lungs.
Without turning around, I say, “Hello, Cole.”
In the glass I see his reflection: wet hair, blacker than a crow’s wing, plastered against his cheeks. Dark eyes fixed only on me.
Rain drips down from the hem of his coat to the linoleum tiles.
“Hello, Mara.”
He swoops in behind me, pressing me against the dryer. His body is soaked and frigid, the hard muscle of his chest locked against my back. Against my belly, the dryer rocks and hums, spreading warmth all the way through me into Cole.
He traps me there, a moth on a windshield.
I can feel his heart racing against my shoulder blade. I feel his hot breath on my neck.
“It’s time for you to stop hiding,” he whispers against my throat. “It’s time for you to come home.”
Terror surges through me—that rush of adrenaline that sends blood surging through every distant capillary, until my whole body throbs like a drum. Cole’s scent envelopes me, not washed away by the rain, only enhanced by it.
If Cole is so bad, then why does he feel so good?
Who knows what the rabbit feels when the hawk lands, pinning it to the ground? When those cruel talons close around its body. When it lifts up into the sky . . .
Maybe the moment of capture is bliss.
Maybe it feels like flying.
All I know is my whole body is thrumming in time to the dryer. Cole presses my chest, my belly, my hips against it. Grinding me into it. Never letting up on the pressure for even a moment.
“You want me to come to your house?” I gasp.
“Yes,” he growls, his chest vibrating just like the dryer, the heat and the pressure making my head spin.
“No,” I say, closing my eyes and shaking my head.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in. He pushes me harder against the glass.
The vibration is having a certain effect on me. I can feel my skin flushing, my pulse quickening, that rushing, clenching feeling that you can only hold back for so long.
“Why do you always have to be so difficult?” he growls.
I turn my head slightly, so we’re cheek to cheek, mouths only an inch apart.
“I want to see your studio,” I demand.
I can feel his irritation. Hear his molars grinding.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Tomorrow night.”
This is madness. I shouldn’t be going to his studio or his house. I should be calling the cops.
But the cops won’t believe me. They never have.