There Are No Saints (Sinners, #1)

by Sophie Lark

This can’t be happening. It’s too surreal. I can’t be one of those girls raped and murdered in the woods. Nothing exceptional has ever happened to me. The irony that this could be my one claim to fame is too much to bear.

“I know you kids get into some kinky shit,” he said, notebook open on his knee, not a thing written down inside it. “What happened? The guy took it too far?” “Well he tried to murder me,” I snapped. “So yeah, that was a bit far for my tastes.”

I’m probably recovering faster than most people. I’m used to getting over things that really fucking suck.

And yet, despite the fact that he’s clearly callous and manipulative, and he left me to fucking die in the woods, I still find myself walking with strange lightness down the hilly streets to my sparkling new studio.

ah yes, color blind to red

I had been counting on her understanding of how advantageous it would be to arrive together. Cameras flashing as we stepped out of the limousine, each oozing the glamour, wealth, and cache I had carefully curated for that moment. Instead, that obstinate little idiot has run off on foot. I HATE when she walks.

He only pulls his gaze away for a moment to run those dark eyes up and down my body, murmuring, “You’re stunning.” I’m glad the green makeup hides my blush. “Erin said it was too much.” “Erin is conventional,” Cole sniffs. “The blend of grotesque and sensual is alluring.” “Well . . . thanks,” I say. I never imagined I’d be flattered to be called “grotesque”, but here we are.

She’s home, but not actually alone. I’m watching her right now through the telescope. Watching her lay in bed, reading. She finished Dracula. Now she’s started The Butterfly Garden. I’m not familiar with that one, but if it interests Mara, I want to read it. I want to know everything in her head.