"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," I breathe. "It has been three days since my last confession."

  "I will hear your confession,” Father Maxwell replies, the same way he always has for the last twenty years.

  "I... had impure thoughts about a woman." I know how that sounds, what he’s thinking. If only it were as simple as fantasising about fucking her, but no. My fantasies are much darker and depraved than that, but that is between God and me. He understands my cryptic confession, even if his messenger doesn't. After all, I'm the black sheep of his flock, the one whose sins he has forgiven many times. The one that the devil waits patiently for.

  "Say ten Hail Mary’s," he says, his voice flat. He sounds bored, the same way he always does. Judas used to say that Father Maxwell could bore the virginity clean off a nun, but then Judas is a blasphemer.

  When I get in my car, I check my phone. There’s a text from Jase.

  Jase: I have a lead on the kid.

  I dial his number and listen to it ring.

  “What lead? " I snap.

  "One of our cleaners. I think they’re doing some dodgy shit.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The Bromley Brothers.”

  “What kind of shit?”

  “I'm not entirely sure yet. Just let me look into it. I’ll let you know when I have something concrete.”

  I suck a deep breath into my lungs. To the world, I know I appear as the image of restraint, but the truth is, I have to step back and allow Jase to handle these situations. I'm nothing if not a businessman, and well, my methods aren't conducive to successful working relationships. I'd sooner crush them like the cockroaches they are, but no man can stand alone. Even I must play with others from time to time.

  "How is Eden?" I ask.

  There's a pause. Long enough that I am not sure he heard me.

  "She's fine," he finally replies. "Why?"

  Why? That is indeed the question. Because she’s fragile. Because she knows too much about me and my business. Because she’s too good for the depravity that I bathe in so willingly. And because I have to wonder how long an angel can last in hell.

  12

  Saint

  My evening goes the same way it always does: run, punishment, eat. My body is adjusting to only a few hours of sleep a day. Eden visited me in my dreams again last night, begging me to help her, pleading for me to take her hand. I don’t understand. I am helping her. Did I not take her hand? What does she want from me? What does He want from me? I’m driven half mad trying to figure it out.

  When I arrive at the club, it’s already at capacity, but the crowd parts as I make my way across the dance floor. A girl drunkenly staggers back a step, bumping against me. I glance down at her in disgust, watching as she rights herself. When she finally turns and looks up at me, her eyes go wide. I'm used to it. What’s more, I like it; the fear I see in their eyes. The knowledge infiltrating her small brain that she’s in danger.

  I move around her and make my way into the catacombs. The air down here is particularly stuffy tonight, and I can feel the humidity lingering. Every table is full.

  I spot Eden serving drinks to some clients, and I can’t help myself. I allow my eyes to roam the length of her body, assessing every curve.

  "Saint." My gaze snaps to Jase. He's standing a few feet away with one brow arched high. Jerking his chin, he walks off towards the lounge. I follow, closing the doors behind us and cutting off the music outside.

  "What do you want?”

  “Pleasant as ever.” He moves over to the bar. "So I looked into the Bromley Brothers activities. Turns out, one of their dealers washed up on the banks of the Thames about a week back."

  "And?"

  "He was only seventeen… went to King's College..."

  "I’m running out of patience, Jase.”

  He rolls his eyes, and the urge to hurt him becomes very real. "Otto Harris goes to Kings College. Same engineering class as this kid...Marcus Jones."

  "Get her in here,” I snap. Coincidence? Perhaps — but unlikely.

  He leaves wordlessly and returns a few minutes later with a nervous looking Eden. Her teeth sink into the plump flesh of her bottom lip, gnawing at it repeatedly. Her eyes meet mine briefly, the emerald green full of an innocence that I can’t pretend I don’t want to possess. Swiping a strand of golden hair behind her ear, she drops that fleeting look to the ground. I find myself missing it, and that annoys me beyond words.

  “Do you know Marcus Jones?" I ask.

  Her eyes flutter closed, long lashes sweeping over high cheekbones in a whispered caress.

  "He’s dead. He was a friend of my brother’s." Her eyes flash open, locking with mine. The resignation in them is clear as day.

  "Did you know he was a member of the Bromley Brothers?"

  There's a pause, a beat of silence where I can see the deliberation cross her features. "Why would I know that?"

  The deception hangs in the air like a fog. I take a step towards her and fight a smile when she retreats. Yes, fear me, angel.

  I can almost taste her anxiety like the sheer panic of a trapped animal. When I'm close enough to smell the musky, yet floral scent of her perfume, something shifts. The panic abates for a moment, and a spark of defiance rises, like a tiny glowing ember, it burns brightly against the mundane simpering fear I’m so accustomed to.

  I'm drawn in, driven by that rare courage. I press against her, feeling the rhythmic brush of her breasts to my chest as she draws rapid breaths. Blood rushes erratically against the artery at her throat.

  I bring my lips to her ear, and the tension in the air feels like pure adrenaline in my veins. I revel in it. Her breath audibly hitches as I exhale, stirring the strands of her hair.

  "Careful, angel. Lies are dangerous.” She swallows heavily, her pulse leaping to a sprint, thrumming against her milky skin. "I'll ask again. Did you know?"

  I'm fast losing patience, and I can sense Jase’s unease rising in sync.

  "No.” Her eyes narrow, and I want her to lash out, the way I know she longs to. I'd love to wrap my fingers around the soft skin of her throat. To squeeze and listen to her beg, feel her nails sinking into my skin as blind panic consumes her. My cock hardens, and I force myself to move away from her, to turn my back and stop looking at the perfection of her face. Sinner, sinner, sinner. The words repeat through my mind, but they fail to filter past the fantasy that has unfolded in my head like a disease. I’ve fucked women, sinners, but Eden is not a sinner. She’s an angel. To want to defile an angel… I will burn.

  “I’ve heard of them. How do you know Marcus was with them?” Eden’s lyrical voice reaches my ears, but I ignore her.

  “The tattoo,” Jase responds.

  “The B, with the thorns,” she muses.

  “You can go, Eden,” Jase tells her.

  “What? No. This…this could lead to Otto, right? That’s why you’re asking.”

  I face her. “Leave, Eden. We’ll inform you if we find anything.”

  Her eyes lock with mine, a fierce glare set on her features. “Are you serious? He’s been missing weeks. You’ve been next to useless. The first time you actually have something, and you want me to leave.”

  Oh, she knows just how to push my buttons. I stalk her, fully expecting her to retreat, to apologise and run. She does none of those things. Instead, she squares her shoulders and stares me down. Oh, little angel. Tsk, tsk.

  "Saint." Jase’s voice is a low warning that I do not care for.

  When I reach Eden, my chest brushes hers. I can feel the warmth of her breath over my lips, and the scent of tequila dances over my tongue. The tension ratchets between us, and I wait for her to back down, but to my delight, she doesn’t. My fingers lace around her neck, the soft skin so warm beneath my fingertips.

  “Angel, I would snap you like a twig. I could have killed you the moment you first walked into this club.”

  Her eyes flash with that red-hot temper, and delicate fingers wrap around my wrist, nails digging into my skin hard. He unleashed against them his hot anger, his wrath, indignation and hostility— a band of destroying angels. The wrath of an angel.

  “Then do it,” she says through gritted teeth. My grip tightens, her pulse pounds against my fingers, a strangled breath slips past her lips, and it’s perfect. So perfect. My dick swells, my lungs shrink, and a need so fierce I can hardly breathe, tears over me.

  I tug her closer, so close that my lips brush hers. “Don’t tempt me,” I whisper against her mouth. “You won’t like what happens.”

  “Saint.” I turn and look at Jase, his gaze intent on mine, and his hand resting on my arm. He gives the slightest shake of his head, and I shrug him off before shoving Eden away from me. She coughs, rubbing over her throat.

  "Leave, Eden.”

  Even now, she hesitates, her gaze darting between Jase and me before she finally slinks from the room. I turn on my brother. "Do that again, and I will kill you. Brother or not.”

  "Jesus. You were looking at her like you wanted to kill her and fuck her at the same time." I say nothing and he groans, swiping a hand over his face. "God, you're a sick bastard."

  "I want to kill most people." Eden Harris isn't special. She’s not. She’s not.

  "Well, you made the choice to keep her alive.” He's right. I did. I decided to help her, only to gain her complete lack of gratitude. And she still plagues my dreams, still torments my conscience.

  “Look into the Brothers."

  Smoothing a hand over the front of his suit jacket, Jase nods and leaves the room.

  My own thoughts whirl around my mind in an unwanted tornado. Eden is a problem. Her brother is a problem. This entire situation is a huge problem that I do not care for.

  But soon this will be resolved, and my life can go back to normal.

  Without her.

  The thought bothers me far more than I like to admit. For who doesn’t want to live in the presence of an angel?

  To be touched by an angel is to be touched by God himself.

  13

  Eden

  There’s a knock on my front door, and I jump up, hurrying to open it. Ash braces one hand against the frame, dark brown eyes meeting mine through a curtain of dirty blonde hair. Removing the chain, I open the door wide and invite him in.

  He strolls past me, smelling of smoke and leather. “Do you want a drink?” I ask.

  “Coffee would be great,” he says, swiping a hand over his face. He looks tired. I set about making coffee, as I can feel his eyes on me from his position against the kitchen counter. “Nice of you to finally call.”

  I inwardly groan. I wish I didn’t, but I need his help. Again. “Sorry. I’ve been busy, working, trying to find my brother…”

  “How is it, working for Jase and Saint Kingsley?” The disdain in his voice is clear.

  “It’s fine.” I hand him the coffee. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I assumed you must want something.” Guilt sits in my gut, but I don’t have time to feel bad about Ash’s hurt feelings right now.

  “What do you know about the Bromley Brothers?”

  He stills, his eyes narrowing. There’s the audible heavy swallow of his coffee going down his throat. “Why would I know about them?”

  I frown. “Why wouldn’t you? You’re a drug dealer—”

  “Former.”

  I roll my eyes. “And you own Paddy’s.” I lift a brow because we both know that a wide range of vagrants hang out at Paddy’s. I’ve witnessed all sorts there, from illegal fight betting to IRA members. The place seems to be a breeding ground for it. Dave never cared, and kept his mouth shut. Ash cares even less because let’s be honest, he’s every bit as bad as them. He says he’s gone straight, but I don’t really believe it. He’s a bad boy, and bad boys like the thrill of doing bad things. It’s why we would never have worked — his need to live on the edge all the time.

  “I don’t know much about the Bromley Brothers.”

  “Well then tell me what you do know.”

  “They’re a gang. They control a lot of South London: drugs, money, the usual. Why are you asking?”

  “I think Otto is involved with them. Or…was…maybe.” Was. I can’t be sure that is applies to my little brother anymore, and the thought encases my heart in an icy terror.

  “Hey.” Ash steps forward and swipes a thumb over my jaw. “It’s okay.”

  “God, stop saying that. It’s not okay, Ash.”

  His brow crumples, and he places the coffee down on the counter. “You’re right. None of this is okay. You’re getting yourself into shit that you don’t understand, Eden.”

  “Don’t…” I shake my head. “I don’t need to understand it. I just need to get through it.”

  “Saint Kingsley will not let you just walk away, even if he finds Otto. He’ll kill him, and then you.” I shake my head. I can’t say whether he’s wrong or right.

  “He’s helping me.”

  “He’s helping himself!” He moves even closer, pressing a finger beneath my chin and forcing me to look at him. “I won’t just watch you walk into hell, Eden. I will fucking pull you out of this if it kills me.”

  “Why, Ash? We haven’t spoken for four years. Why do you care so much?”

  His brows pull together. “You really don’t know?” I shake my head, and he leans in, placing his lips to my forehead. I close my eyes, inhaling the scent of leather. “Goodnight, Eden.”

  I only open my eyes when I hear the front door click shut.

  Days pass, and I’m anxious. I’ve Googled the Bromley Brothers without any real success. I’ve debated going to the police, but there’s a high probability that they won’t do anything about it. And all the while, Ash’s words circulate through my mind. Saint Kingsley will kill Otto, and then he’ll kill you. I don’t doubt his words. I guess I’m just willing to take the chance at this point, but what happens when I find Otto? Will I be willing to take the gamble then?

  I place a tequila bottle and six glasses on a tray, along with salt and lime slices. One of the other servers comes and takes the tray, walking it over to the table of Latino guys in the corner.

  I’m on edge today, unable to focus on anything. It’s been two weeks and three days since my brother went missing, and with each passing day, I know that finding him alive becomes a slimmer reality. Neither Saint nor Jase have said anything since asking me about Marcus and the Bromley Brothers a few days ago. I’m not sure how much more I can take.

  On a whim, I leave the bar, and head for the double doors of Saint’s private lounge. I open the door without knocking, and the old iron hinges let out a strained squeal. The heavy latch clicks shut behind me, and I jump a little at the finality of it. The jazz music from outside dims to only a faint hum behind the crackling of the fire. That’s the only light in the room, painting everything in a low rusted glow.

  For a moment, I think the room is empty until I hear the slightest creak of wood. My gaze snaps to the huge singular chair in the centre of the area. I find icy blue eyes locked on me like two glowing jewels in the darkness. The high back of the ornate wood shadows Saint completely from the warm glow of the fire — like a vampire — a true creature of darkness.

  “You don’t have an appointment,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice sending a violent shiver down my spine.

  Just ask him what’s happening.

  “You asked me about the Bromley Brothers,” I say, turning to face him. “Was Otto working for them?”

  He shifts and pushes to his feet, stepping from the shadows. The fire glows around him, but he seems to suck away all the light. His gaze drops to my legs before slowly trailing back up, but there’s nothing sexual in it. More like a snake assessing whether it can eat its prey.

  “You don’t have an appointment,” he repeats.

  “Saint—”

  “Leave,” he clips out.

  “No.”

  One brow arches high above his blue eyes, and a chill sweeps through the air like an arctic front. “No?”

  His jaw tenses, the muscles flickering below the surface of his skin. His eyes lock with mine: glacial, unfeeling and yet….troubled. He’s upset. Because I don’t have an appointment?

  And then he moves closer, and a very real fear settles over my entire body. I swallow heavily. Shit.

  14

  Saint

  “No?” No one has ever said no to me. The word wraps around me like a choking vine. “Your lack of natural survival instinct is troubling.”

  “I have nothing to lose,” she whispers. “I’m not scared of you, Saint.”

  I laugh. I have to. Moving closer once more, I trail a single fingertip over the pretty skin of her throat. “Oh, but you do, angel. There is always something to lose. Just when you think you have nothing, I will find a way to strip you of every single grain of yourself, until there’s nothing left but a broken vessel.”

  She trembles, her breath hitching violently with the movement. “So you have no intention of helping me.”

  “I will help me, and if that helps you by proxy, then so be it.” Lies! Take my hand.

  She takes a slow step back, her eyes hardening. “My mistake for placing any faith in a criminal.”

  “The world is selfish, angel. Only you can look out for you.”

  She lifts her chin. “Your world is selfish, Saint. And you will be judged for that.”

  My hand slams around her throat so fast and hard that she coughs and chokes against the impact. “You are not above the rules, angel.” My fingers tighten further, and I bask in the feeling of her racing pulse like the thrumming of a hummingbird’s wings. Those green eyes of hers are wide with panic as the realisation sinks in: I could kill her. She tries desperately to grab at my hands, nails scraping over the skin. Yes, fight m,e angel. Leaning in, I bring my lips to her ear. “Can you feel it; how easily I could snuff you from existence?” Her lips part, just starting to turn the most exquisite shade of blue. Just a little longer… I force myself to release her with a shove. She staggers away, clutching her knees and heaving great lungfuls of air. So close.