“I’m not sorry that I killed him.” My head drops forward and grief consumes me, not for Ashton, but for my soul, which is now damned. I feel only the sickening disappointment that God has shunned me, because I am so very wrong, and without his guidance I would have unleashed all my dark urges on his children a long time ago. Bad boys go to hell.

  “Then you cannot be truly absolved of sin.”

  “I’m destined for the fires of hell,” I murmur, voicing the very thought that plagues me relentlessly.

  He takes a shaky breath, the sound like a gun shot in the silence of the confessional. “Unless you truly repent in your soul, yes.”

  Pushing to my feet, I grab the curtain, pausing for a moment. “Perhaps I have no soul.”

  And without a soul, what do heaven or hell really matter?

  The scent of sulphur is even stronger than normal, infecting my lungs until I’m choking on it. Heatwaves shimmer in the air, rising from the bone-dry surface below my feet. The post presses to my back, the rope digging into the skin at my wrists. My lungs start to seize in panic, and I tug against my bindings. Fear beats away at me until I’m consumed by it. The flames are coming. Any second…

  I blink, and there’s a burst of light against the dark grey apocalyptic-looking sky. The light shrinks, the same way it always does until I can make out a form within it. An angel walks towards me. Her flowing white dress unmarred by the blackened ash that surrounds her.

  “Eden,” I breathe.

  She stops before me and tilts her head to the side, her eyes bitterly sad. “You will burn, Saint.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Please. You can save me.” She steps forward, slowly reaching out and placing her hand on my head. Her fingers trail over my cheek, the touch jolting me to my core. “You can save me,” I whisper.

  She moves closer, those beautiful green eyes studying every inch of my face. “Yes. I can.” Cupping my cheek, she leans in, and warm lips brush over mine. It’s like standing in the sun on a clear summers day. The scent of sulphur disappears and instead, I smell flowers and cut grass. The silence of whatever purgatory this is is replaced by wind chimes and the soft sound of waves washing over a beach. I feel…blessed. Her lips press more firmly to mine, her fingers stroking over my cheek so gently. “I can save you,” she whispers, touching her forehead to mine. I feel it deep down in the recesses of myself. Only she can save me.

  I wake up, and instantly want to be back there, in hell, with her.

  Save me, angel.

  22

  Eden

  Life just seems to keep kicking me when I’m down, and honestly, the bruises are starting to show. It’s been three days, and I’ve heard nothing from Ash. I thought he’d at least text me an apology. I guess he doesn’t really care. Perhaps he just wanted back in my pants after all. Stupid me for thinking he actually gave a shit. No one does.

  It’s also been three days since I last saw Saint.

  Each evening, a car comes and picks me up and takes me to work at Salvation, and my car has mysteriously disappeared. I’d ask him about it, but I haven’t seen him, or Jase for that matter. And so life goes on. My brother is still missing. I’m still alone. Nothing changes.

  I work my shift and go home, the same way I always do. The driver rolls into the car park and stops, waiting for me to get out. It’s not always the same guy, but none of them ever talk to me. I wonder if they’ve been ordered not to, or if they simply don’t want to. Either way, that silent drive seems to exacerbate my loneliness, highlighting it. The lonely girl, shunned, even by strangers.

  Climbing out of the car, I slam the door and start walking towards my building when I pause. There, in the parking space right beside the path is my car, the dull yellow paint impossible to miss under the orange glow of the streetlight.

  Leaning against the passenger door is Saint. His head is tipped down, hiding his face. Black hair matches his suit, and both seem to blend into the shadows, as though he were one with them. Silence seems to cling to him, exasperating his stillness. He always scares me, but today there seems to be something different about him, an ominous air that makes me shiver.

  “Saint?” My voice trembles, and I fidget with the strap of my handbag.

  Slowly, he straightens away from the car and moves closer. He stops a few feet away from me, as though sensing my fear and actually respecting it. He looks…different. Dark circles linger beneath his eyes, and he’s not quite as put together as usual.

  “Are…you okay?”

  His eyes meet mine, and he looks…vulnerable. I never thought I would see Saint Kingsley look vulnerable.

  “Your car is fixed.” He holds the key out to me, and I step forward, taking it from him. He had my car fixed. I fear him, but as I look in his eyes, I almost pity him. He’s surrounded by people, yet he has no one. Like me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, as though raising my voice would penetrate the silent bubble that seems to have surrounded us. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  His lips quirk on one side, though his eyes remain...tortured. “No. Where you’re concerned, I find myself doing many things I normally wouldn’t.”

  I frown. He must be talking about Otto. Helping me. “I appreciate you trying to find my brother, and…for telling me about Ash.” I shake my head. “You can’t trust anyone in this world.”

  He’s suddenly right in front of me, so close I can feel his breath stirring the strands of my hair. “Trust me, Eden.”

  I slowly lift my eyes to his, and I sink into a void of his pain and anguish. And for a moment, just a moment, I forget my own pain, my own torment. “I can’t work you out, Saint.” What could possibly cause a man such as him pain?

  Lifting his hand, he sweeps his fingers along my jaw. I shouldn’t like it. It certainly shouldn’t make me feel safe, but there’s something in the way he’s looking at me, as though he would kill for me…

  Leaning in, he presses his lips to my forehead, and I listen to the soft inhale of his breath. I don’t know what’s happening. I swear I hear him breathe the words I need you, but no, I misheard.

  He steps back at the sound of a car engine somewhere behind us. “I’ll see you tomorrow, angel.” The black Range Rover stops beside us, and he moves over to the back door. “Run along. I’ll wait.”

  I turn and start walking, feeling his eyes on me the entire way to the front of my building. I make it inside my apartment and run to the living room window, watching the Range Rover pull out of the car park. I open my hand, glancing down at the keys sitting on my palm. Frowning, I pinch an additional key ring between my thumb and finger. A wing, the delicate feather etched in silver. How strange.

  Then a thought occurs to me — maybe he just pities me. He might know something about Otto, something bad, and that’s why he’s suddenly being so nice to me. Sickness settles in my gut, and I clutch the key ring tightly until the sharp end digs into the palm of my hand. No, he would tell me. He would.

  I force myself to drop my keys, and they fall to the wooden table with a clatter. Scooping up the remote, I turn the TV on, needing the background noise to drown out my thoughts.

  Two bodies have washed up here on the South bank of the River Thames, very close to the O2 Arena. My gaze snaps to the television instantly, and I turn it up. The bodies have been confirmed as Billy and Brad Bromley, two brothers long suspected of running the South London gang known as The Bromley Brothers. This comes after the murder of several members of another gang in a Chinese restaurant in Hammersmith, earlier this month. Police are refusing to comment at this stage and say the investigation is on-going.

  The Bromley Brothers…what does this mean? Were they toppled by the cartel? Are they now killing off all the gang members?

  The facts are laid right in front of me, and honestly, after nearly four weeks, I’m not sure how it’s possible for my brother to have survived. I’m losing hope fast, and despair is encroaching, threatening to drown me.

  I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.

  23

  Saint

  I kneel before the virgin, lifting the cat o’ nine tails high above my head. The leather tassels arc high before meeting my skin. Glass slices into me, and the sting resonates over every nerve ending. The satisfying feeling of blood trickling down my back makes me smile. I repeat the action over and over until the very task of lifting my arm over my head tugs on the damaged skin. Dropping the instrument, I bend forward, bracing my hands on the mat as I try and catch my breath. This is what I’m reduced to. Empty punishments to the Virgin because she’s abandoned me. I can feel it. Her motherly gaze no longer falls on me but stares straight through me. My blood isn’t enough.

  God has abandoned me, and no amount of soul searching can right the wrong I’ve done. My sin is my own, but I can’t feel true guilt for it. Perhaps by my very nature, I’m incapable of such things. That simple fact condemns me to the fires of hell. It keeps me from Him, and that pains me in ways I cannot put into words. He has been my constant, my guiding light. Without it, I’m…lost. Maybe Judas was right, and I was always destined to be right here. The only time I feel Him is when I’m near her: Eden.

  She’s like a vessel for the Holy Spirit. Purity spills from her as rain falls from a black cloud. I can save you. She’s my absolution, my salvation, and because of that, she’s become my obsession.

  Pushing to my feet, I hang the whip back on the wall and tug my black t-shirt over my head. The material instantly sticks to the blood, but it’s hidden in the dark fibres.

  I open the door and step out into the hall. The banging of various pots and pans sounds from the kitchen, and I follow the sound. Leaning on the door frame, I watch as Otto hurries around the kitchen, making a mess all over my pristine surfaces. He pauses when he sees me.

  “Oh, hi, Saint. I’m making pancakes. Want some?” He swipes his cheek, leaving a smear of flower on his already pale skin.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Oh, okay.” He seems disappointed, and I’ve noticed this about Eden’s younger brother — he craves approval. He likes to do good deeds and be rewarded with praise. Like a dog.

  “What is Eden’s favourite meal?” I ask.

  “Uh, probably lasagne.” Of course. It’s simple, homely.

  “What music does she like?”

  “Hmm.” Otto looks up at the ceiling the same way he always does when he’s thinking. “She loves Royal Blood.”

  “Rock?”

  “Eh, kind of.”

  This is now our normal. Every day, I ask him questions about Eden, and he answers them. At first, he was suspicious, but he no longer hesitates. My enquiries are always inconsequential, random facts that make up a person’s life: Her first pet, their mother’s name, her hobbies growing up, her dreams in life.

  Otto has painted a picture of his sister that only confirms what I already knew — she has a pure soul. She nursed her mother through cancer aged sixteen, lost her at seventeen when she then had the court award her guardianship of her thirteen-year-old brother. She could have easily fallen into a life of crime, living where they did. Instead, she studied, and gained a scholarship. She studied more and worked two jobs to keep a roof over their heads. She drives that scrap heap of a car because it was her mother’s, even though it costs her more in repairs than it would to buy a new car. She won’t sell it. The woman is nothing short of saintly, but of course, she is an angel.

  The more I learn about her, the more drawn to her I am, as though her goodness could somehow erase the evil that infects me. I am cast out, but she is my way back in, I know it. The question is how. I watch the boy beat eggs and flour together in a bowl, flashing me an awkward, shy smile as he does so. His curly blonde hair sticks up in every direction, and his cheeks flush with the tinge of youth. He’s so innocent, a bystander in all this. I need to give him back to her. That will make her happy — quell her suffering. She deserves that, to be reunited with the brother she raised. She deserves everything good because she’s good.

  The memory of my dream surfaces, her, with eyes like the garden of her namesake, wings spread wide as she takes the boy’s hand and leads him away. She left me there to burn. If I give him to her, she’ll leave me to my punishment, to burn in hell. No, I’ve killed for her. We are bound in blood, entwined by fate itself. She can’t leave me. She’s mine. My angel. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I would look after her in a way no one else ever has. Which means he can’t leave. If I can’t return him to his sister, then what do I do? That is the question that now plagues me.

  Stepping back, I rub my temples. I need to think. Decisions, decisions.

  Friday night. The club is busy, and I, in turn, remain in the lounge, though I’m not blind to Eden. I had the security personal link all the club CCTV to an app on my phone. I can now see the club from anywhere.

  Eden seems especially forlorn today. I watch her pour drinks and mix cocktails. The false smiles she once managed to paint on her face are now absent. Otto’s absence is taking its toll on her. She wears the same knee-length black dress I saw her in when she first started, only it no longer clings to her curves. The material hangs, swamping her thinning frame. Even from here, and beneath a layer of make-up, I can see the shadows beneath her eyes, the way her cheekbones protrude as though trying to break free of her skin. My angel is falling. She’s losing faith. And what is an angel without belief? No, she can’t.

  Standing, I make my way into the downstairs club. Eden is now serving her tray of drinks to a table. Dirty politicians Jase managed to blackmail to our cause last year. Eden bends at the waist, putting one of the glasses on the table, and that’s when one of the older men places his hand on the back of her thigh, his fingers just pushing beneath the material of her dress. She stills, and then steps away, ignoring the move. I don’t though. The image is very much branded in my mind.

  In only a couple of heavy heartbeats, I’m at the table. Eden notices my presence first, dropping her gaze to the floor as though she’s embarrassed. I grip a handful of the man’s hair and wrench his head back. A shocked cry slips from his lips, and his corrupt friends all still.

  “You put your hands on my staff.”

  “No,” he whimpers. Pathetic.

  “Do not offend me with your lies!” He stammers over his words, but nothing clear comes out. I release him, shoving him forward, but before I can stop myself, my hand slams over the back of his head, using his already forward momentum to drive his face into the table. I hear the crack, and blood spatters everywhere, like an egg being smashed.

  His friends all shove to their feet, leaping away in an attempt not to stain their expensive suits.

  “Get out.” I step away, smoothing a hand down the front of my jacket. I glance at Eden who is now pressed to the wall, her tray clutched to her chest like a shield. The man scrambles away from me, clutching his broken nose. None of them dares say anything though. They’re stuffed suits. Corrupt, but not in the way I am. I see the terror in their eyes as they fear for their pitiful lives. Good. They should have some respect.

  When they’re out of sight, I turn to Eden. Her eyes are wide, her teeth raking over her full bottom lip.

  “Come on.” I offer her my hand, and she glances at it for a moment before slowly sliding her fingers over mine. Her touch instantly calms the angry storm in my head. Everything disappears except her. She’s all I see. All I hear. Our eyes lock, and I fall into her, as though immersed in God’s garden. At that moment, everything feels…tranquil. Perfect. She drops her gaze, and all at once, everything rushes back in. The jazz music, the low titter of conversation, glasses clinking, and the low hum of the ice dispenser. Her fingers tighten around mine, and I glance down at our entwined hands. “Come,” I say again, leading her to the stairs. Her hand remains in mine as we move through the club, and a low current passes from her to me.

  I open the passenger door of my car for her and guide her inside. When our fingers separate, I grieve the loss. That warmth she gives off so effortlessly leaves me, and I’m cold. It’s not until we’re a few miles down the road that she finally speaks.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “You’ll see, angel.”

  We sit in silence for the rest of the journey, though it never feels tense or strained. We don’t need words, only each other’s presence. Two lone souls, bound.

  I pull up outside the church and cut the engine. Eden looks out of the window, the light spilling through the open doors illuminating her features. She finally turns her gaze on me. “You brought me to a church.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not religious.” The irony in that statement is not lost on me.

  “You’re losing faith, angel.”

  She swipes her hair behind her ear. “What?”

  “You no longer believe that you will find your brother. You’re giving up.”

  She shakes her head. “No! I would never give up.” Her eyes drop to her lap, but not before I spot the hint of shame in them.

  “Faith is supposed to be tested. It’s how we respond that defines us.”

  She slowly lifts her gaze, her head tilting to the side. “You believe in God.”

  “I’m Catholic.”

  She says nothing for long moments. “You surprise me, Saint. The more I know of you, the more confusing you are.”

  “An immoral man may still pray for his soul.” I open the door and climb out, watching over the roof of the car as she does the same. She stands with her back to me, staring at the church as though it were some foreign, unknown concept. Rounding the car, I move beside her and wind my fingers through hers. She glances down at her hands, and the corner of her lips pulls up in the tiniest hint of a smile.