by Amo Jones
I watch as she struggles with what I’ve said. Slowly, she peels off her belt and moves across to me. When she’s taking too long, I snake my arm out and drive her onto my lap. Her knees hit either side of me, her hands on my neck. She notices the knife in my hand.
“Can we have this talk without that?”
“Nope.” I grin up at her, my eyes flicking between her mouth and her eyes.
She relaxes in my arms, dropping her lips down to mine. She wants soft, but she’s not going to get it. My fingers wrap around the back of her neck to hold her against me, my tongue diving into her mouth. She moans, and I bite down on the swell of her bottom lip, dragging my teeth over the curve. She removes her shirt, and I watch as she slowly peels herself naked for me. Inch by inch. I leave her to it. She pulls on my belt, and I inch up so my jeans can slip over the swelling of my cock.
She grips it hard, her eyes wide and her little hand nowhere near coming close enough to wrap around my shit. Slowly she licks her lips, looking up at me from behind thick lashes as she slides her lips over the tip. I watch as every piercing disappears into her mouth.
“Fuck.” I groan, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. My hand finds her hair and I fist it tightly, tugging on her head and demanding her to look up at me. My cock rests against her lips while her eyes remain up on mine.
“What?” she asks, fluttering her fucking lashes. “Am I doing something wrong?”
“No, I more want to know how you know what you’re doing…”
“Porn.” She shrugs, flicking her little tongue over the tip, teasing Prince fucking Albert. “Reverse” by G-Eazy is playing through the car.
I tighten my grip. “What?”
She bites on her lower lip. “What?”
I guide her back over me, biting down on my bottom lip. “No more talking.”
She slides me inside her mouth but stops halfway. I run my fingers through her hair, over to one side of her head and pull her back up my body. My fingers find her nipple before I suck her perfect tit into my mouth while my thumb maintains slow circles on her clit. She rides my finger, her head falling on my shoulder.
“I need—”
“What?” I ask, sinking my teeth into her breast. I look back when I notice the two holes from my fangs and the blood that drips out of them slowly. “What do you want?”
She pauses, catching my eyes with hers while her brows curve in. Just when I think she’s going to crawl off, she directs her hips over mine, and when the tip of my cock is against her entrance, she swallows me fucking whole. She gasps but continues the descent. Her tight pussy doesn’t budge, the grip way too fucking strong. I bring my hand to the front of her throat, squeezing tightly while cranking my head.
“Don’t ever fucking hang up on me again.”
She ignores me, because she’s fucking good at that, as she rides over my girth with slow gyrations. Too slow. My fingers bite into her hips as I slam her over me roughly, until I’m balls deep inside. Tight, wet, and so fucking needy. Being inside Saint is like being on LSD with no come-down. She drops her forehead onto mine and fucks me faster, harder, riding my cock like she’s been doing it all her life. Like she fucking belongs on it.
My hand is back on her throat as I flip her onto her back, one leg falling over the seat while her other is twisting around my waist. The knife is on the floor, so I pick it up while dropping little kisses over her jawline.
My teeth are in her neck again, biting and sucking. She hooks her fingers under my chin, raising my face to meet hers, before leaning forward and sucking my lip into her mouth. She drags her tongue across the rim, sucking up every drop. I groan, my dick flexing against her tightness.
“Let me try something…” Her fingers wrap around the knife that’s in my hand, and she brings it to the curve of my neck. “Are you scared I might cut you?”
I smirk down at her. “Kinda hope you do…”
She presses the tip just beneath my jaw, her eyes flying to mine exposing her panic. “That hurt?”
I chuckle quietly, my shoulders shaking. “So much to learn, my little Dea…”
She runs her finger over the curve of my jaw, sucking it into her mouth while looking up at me.
I lift her up by her waist until she’s straddling my lap again, spinning her around to reverse cowgirl. Tugging on her hair until her head is tilted backward, I drive my hips into her. She moans too loudly, so I slam one hand over her mouth, pulling her back against my chest. I tighten my arm around her stomach when her body convulses around me, her walls fisting my cock like a fucking vise. I groan, emptying inside of her with every thrust.
“Fuck.”
She falls against me, catching her breath before I pull out and she squeezes into her clothes. She’s fully dressed when I’m running my hand through my hair until it sticks up in natural waves.
“What do you do for The Kings?” she asks too quickly, like two of her holes didn’t just swallow my fucking cock.
“I kill people,” I say, flicking my tongue over my teeth.
She doesn’t answer, so I turn to face her. She’s watching me carefully, and then slowly leans up, reaching for the cut under my jaw.
“Why?” I ask, flinching away from her touch.
She rubs the tip of her finger over the—barely—small wound, her eager eyes up on mine. “Just wondering. All jokes aside…”
She can touch me with her hands, but I won’t let her experience what it’s like to feel my soul. “Who said I was joking?”
She pauses. “I can’t imagine anyone you would have to kill.”
“A lot of people,” I answer her, tightening my belt.
“Well, they must be bad…”
I laugh, my head tipping back until I’m focused on the ceiling. “No, Saint. They’re not all bad. Because when Hector needs someone to do the shit he can’t trust anyone else to do, he calls a Vitiosis, you know why?”
Her eyes blink up at me and I feel a pang of guilt for unloading on her. “Because we don’t give a fuck if the person on the receiving end of our nine is good or bad. It’s just simply what we do.”
She gulps. Pretty sure she doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t either. “What about Nate?”
“Same, only different,” I say. “The first thing you have to understand is that we are not good people. We’re not redeemable. You either live with us, demons and all, or you don’t.”
“And Eli?” She turns all the way to me now, tucking her leg underneath her ass.
“He’s a Rebelis. He does everything he wants. He also stirs mischief, trouble. He antagonizes our enemies.”
“Why would you do that?” I’m reminded that not only is she not part of this world, but not the one out there either. Things work differently in her head.
“Because it makes them angry. Everything is… heightened.”
“Games,” she whispers, and I smirk.
The limo stops, and I gesture out the window. “We have to pick up Bishop. Come in.”
She pauses, chewing on her lip while her eyes swing up to the house.
I grip my fingers around her chin, forcing her eyes back to mine. “You don’t want to talk to him yet, that’s fine. He won’t push you. When you’re ready, he’s there.”
“It’s fine,” she exhales. “I guess it’s going to happen.”
I still, whatever the fuck is left of my heart beats a little in my chest, the most it has ever done. “Come on.”
She pushes the door and steps outside. I’m still straightening my jeans when we’re walking up to the front of the house.
She stops just short of the stairs.
“Saint…” I turn over my shoulder. She’s staring up at the house, her shoulders rigid. I backtrack, reaching for her hand. “I can drop you home first if you’re tired.”
She shakes her head. “No. I slept on the plane to get back into our time zone.” She brings her eyes to mine and smiles. “I think I want to talk to him.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure? Right now?”
/>
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Yes.”
Fuck.
I wrap my fingers around hers, but she grabs on to my pinky finger instead. I leave it there while guiding her up the stairs and to the front door. The Hayes family and their over-the-top glass houses. I shove open the front door and gesture her inside. She takes in the décor, her eyes flying around in amazement. The family photography, the art, the crystal chandelier, even the Calacatta marble floor. She’s taking in everything, and a little voice in the back of my head is worried about that.
Bishop’s walking straight for Saint when he comes into the foyer. I release her. It’ll probably be the first time she’s going to see a little bit of the grumpy Bishop.
He scoops her up by the legs and she squeals as he tosses her over his shoulder. “You ever fucking do that shit again.”
She giggles—fucking giggles—and he slowly places her back to the floor. I watch as a silent conversation happens between them. His eyes on hers, her small smile. “She’s not okay. About the same as you.”
“Why did she need you?” Bishop asks the question we’ve been trying to figure out since we knew she was flying to New Zealand.
I watch her face carefully. Saint can’t lie for shit. She shakes her head. “Not right now.”
“What does that fucking mean?” I snap, stepping closer to her. “What do you fucking mean?”
She looks at me. “I’m sorry, okay! To both of you, but I can’t say right now.”
Bishop’s jaw tenses, and I know he’s pissed about it as much as I am. We’re the ones who keep the secrets. We’re the ones who are always steps ahead. Not them.
She steps away from us. “Where’s Hector?”
Saint
There are echoes that live within these walls, and they whisper all of the secrets the Hayes family keep locked away.
Brantley glances down the hallway behind the staircase, before coming back to me. “We’ll take you.” Truthfully, I probably should have gone straight home. I don’t know if I’m running on fumes or adrenaline, but I feel the need to see Hector. For one reason, but the other possibilities could be a bonus, too.
Bishop stares at Brantley, and I feel the shift of whatever is happening begin to move between them. They’re hiding something from me. I can sense the tightness in the air.
Making my way down the hallway, I pass the contemporary art that’s hanging on the wall and the large Victorian-style mirror. It has metal claws on all four corners, which wrap around the edges like the sharp nails of a woman. Weird décor that doesn’t match this house at all. Brantley stops me before my hand is on the door handle. “We’ll stay out here.”
I shake my head. “No. I want you both in there.” But I won’t tell you why…
Brantley’s hand is on the handle again, pushing until it splits open, revealing the vast office space of Hector Hayes. They say you can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his office. This is more like a small library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that fill the walls, a glass cabinet built into the wall, a long rectangular office desk clearly crafted from wealth, and a puffy leather chair tucked behind it, which is where Hector is staring at me from. He rolls a thick cigar between his thumb and forefinger, curling his other fingers up to signal Bishop to close the door.
Bishop closes it behind us, but I don’t move my focus from Hector. His smile looks deceiving, and I don’t know if that’s just how he is or if I’m reading him wrong. If I had to judge him by his office, I would say clean. There’s a problem with clean, though, and that’s because no one with the reputation of Hector Hayes is clean. So I’m left with the word fraud rolling around inside my head. Aside from that, he looks good for his age. Tattoos cover his skin, a trimmed beard around his mouth, and a full head of healthy hair.
He unbuttons his suit jacket and gestures to the four chairs in front of his desk. The idea to get this conversation over with was a decision I made on a whim. Bishop taking the gavel tomorrow means I want it done for him. I know how much he wants this conversation to happen, and I think deep down I have questions that I would like to know the answers to, whether he wants to share those with me or not.
Bishop falls onto the chair to the left of me, and Brantley to the one on the right. He scoots his chair forward farther so he’s slightly in front of me.
Hector notices, a small smile flicking over his lips. “Still don’t trust me, nephew?”
“The Godfather? Of course. Just not with this.” Brantley winks at him.
Hector shakes his head, his eyes finally coming to mine. “You look more like my family than you do your mother’s.”
Bishop leans into me. “That’s supposed to be a compliment.”
“Hmmm,” Hector huffs. “I guess you’ve got a lot of questions for me.” He flicks the ash off his cigar. “All of which I’m willing to tell you honestly. Brantley and I have both agreed it’s best you know everything that we know. That is, if you think you are able to handle the truth.”
“I can,” I say, looking to Brantley, who’s running his finger over his upper lip while watching Hector.
Hector leans forward. “Do you remember anything before being with Brantley?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t even remember the day I arrived there. Where was I before if I didn’t go to Brantley until I was two?”
Hector pauses, his focus buoyantly on Brantley. He leans back in his chair. “You were in an orphanage in Vatican City.”
“An orphanage?” I ask, shocked. “Why in Vatican City?”
Hector remains passively focused on me. “This orphanage isn’t for any child. It’s for—well—”
“Here we go.” Bishop kicks out his leg.
“For kids with special abilities.”
The confusion must be evident on my face, because Hector continues. “It’s for kids who may suffer from issues that could separate them from society. It is owned by friends of The Kings, and has been there for generations. It’s in Rome because it’s far enough away from our enemies.” Hector stands. “Or so we assumed.” He turns to the bookshelf behind him and runs his fingers over worn spines.
Bishop groans. “Do not give her Tacet a Mortuis.”
“I’m not.” Hector laughs, finally picking a burned red leather spine and dropping it so hard on his desk that dust particles explode into the air. “This is our family history book.”
“Jesus Christ.” Bishop snickers. “Why so many fucking books?”
“Because it’s how our ancestors could communicate with us. I tried to get you to read it once. Not a chance.”
Bishop flips off Hector.
“It’s true. I read once that people would journal a lot, speak to their future from the grave,” I say futilely to no one in particular.
Hector ignores him and slides the book across the table. “Read it if nothing I’m telling you makes a lot of sense. But it all started with one of my great-great-great-grandmothers.”
I pause.
Hector points to the book that’s now in my hand with his cigar. “She escaped Salem.”
My fingers flex over the aged leather of the book. “Salem? As in the Salem witch trials?”
He nods. “The very same.” Taking a seat back on his chair, he puffs on his cigar until the sweet scent of burnt tobacco drifts around my face. “That was her journal, in her own words. The papers are all bonded together with wax. A lot of the words may not make sense. Majority of it is written in early modern English. She escaped the trials, ended up in Riverside, and well—” Hector raises his hands around the room. “She became a legend amongst most. Mainly for putting up with a Hayes, but because the year 1694 was the year she gave birth, and then 1695 was the year The Hayes Curse was born.”
I blow out a loud exhale of breath, shifting in my chair.
“I don’t understand what any of this means,” I answer honestly, placing the heavy book on my lap. “But what I really want to know, is what do you mean, The Hayes Curse?”
&nb
sp; Bishop turns toward me. “They called it a curse, but it isn’t really. Have you heard of clear sight and psychometry?”
“Yes. Clairvoyancy?”
Bishop nods. “Yeah. So, they say there’s one in every Hayes generation. When it skipped me, we all figured we were fine, but that was until I found out Daddy Dearest was hiding another kid, along with his closet full of side bitches.”
Hector flashes a cocky smirk.
Bishop continues after glaring at him. “You’ve experienced things, right?”
Silence. Undiluted silence. I close my eyes, pulling my knees up to my chest. “I—I don’t know.”
Brantley turns toward me, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking up at me behind his shoulder. “I’ve caught you a few times.”
I look to him. “That was sleepwalking.”
Brantley glares at me, and the way his eyes flick between my mouth and back to my eyes, makes me shuffle uncomfortably. Pins and needles pinch over my skin. “Yes, but no.”
“The boys are right,” Hector says. “And over the years I was against you ever finding out. I didn’t think you needed to know. When Brantley stepped in and took you, it was agreed that when they started—if they started—he was to manage it.”
“—which I did,” Brantley snaps at Hector. “Until.”
“Until you came back into this life,” Hector finishes. “I underestimated the power of your generation.”
“Okay,” I murmur, thrown off by the revelation that I’m basically a damn freak. This explains a lot of things, but I need to bleed more information out of them anyway, at least before I spill. “What—what should I look out for?”
Hector shrugs. “That I don’t know. It comes in differently for every person.”
I hold my breath, my eyes swing between all of them quickly, shifting so fast, afraid I’ll miss something. I figure I have to read one of them, and one of them only if this is going to work. They can conceal anything far too quickly for me to catch.
I turn toward Brantley. “Ava Garcia.”
Goosebumps swell over my skin, a shiver crawling down my spine. The temperature in the room drops to dangerous levels, and suddenly they’re all silent. It’s fine. They can be silent, because Brantley’s slipup was loud enough for me to have an answer.