There Are No Saints (Sinners, #1)

by Sophie Lark

He reminds me of a pitcher plant, exuding sticky sweetness to lure in flies.

He uses my given name to annoy me. I use his surname for the same reason. He thinks because he knows certain things about me, that there’s an intimacy between us. There is no intimacy. The emotion is all from one side.

don’t kill women, typically. This is not out of any petty moral constraint. It’s just too fucking easy.

I wrap the wire around his neck and pull it taut, cutting off his breath like I snipped it short with a pair of shears. His panic is instant.

I feel no sympathy. No guilt. Those are emotions I’ve never experienced. I’m aware, academically, of the full range of human emotions. I’ve studied them intently so I can mimic their effects. But they have no power over me. What I do feel, I feel intensely: rage, revulsion, and pleasure.

I’m not killing Danvers because I have to. I’m killing him because I want to.

Then the butchering begins. While I’m working, I feel a sense of purpose. I’m stimulated, interested, flushed with satisfaction. This is the feeling I always get when I’m creating art.

It gave me hope that loveliness could bloom out of ugliness and scarcity.

Everybody knows about Blackwell and Shaw’s rivalry. The art mags love writing up every little tiff between them. Both young, loaded, and fucking everything that moves, all while trying to top each other with increasingly outrageous artwork—it’s a columnist’s wet dream.

like sex but I’m not that great at it. I’m too easily irritated. If a guy eats a slice of pizza and then tries to kiss me, if he makes a clicking sound when he swallows, if a hangnail scratches my skin, if he even fucking thinks about kissing my ears, my pussy clamps shut like a bear trap.

It’s only when the cold air hits my flesh that I realize I’m naked—or at least, partly naked. My tits are definitely bare.

This motherfucker put rings through my nipples.

A vicious slash burns across each arm as he slits my wrists.

I doubt my dumping ground will ever be discovered. If it is, the remains I’ve deposited are unlikely to be identified, and impossible to link to me. The bones within Fragile Ego are, of course, a different story.

know at once who left her here: Alastor-fucking-Shaw. Fury consumes me like a pyre. How dare he follow me here. He crossed a serious fucking line between us, encroaching on my ground, disrupting my process. He’ll pay for this.

I’ll admit, this girl is a hundred times more appealing to me in this moment than she was at the show. She looks delicate and luminous, her flesh so tender that it would bruise at the slightest touch. The clean lines of her naked limbs, twisted and bound, call out for rearrangement . . .

I won’t give Alastor what he wants. Not after he intruded on my sacred space.

I’ve killed fourteen people and I’ve yet to receive a single knock on my door.

If the girl was found, her case would be linked to the seven he’s killed over the last three years. He leaves them out in the open, proclaiming what he’s done.

He’s the son of a teacher and a plumber, something he proudly touts in interviews when he’s pretending to be salt of the earth.

fucked her roommate in the stairwell. Stole her ID out of her wallet.”

His upper lip curls in disgust, both at the promiscuity of women and the loss of the challenge when hunting becomes too easy.

“If we’re ever alone in a room again, only one of us will walk out breathing.”

was so certain she was dead. I hate being wrong. I hate it all the more for how rarely it happens. My anger flares at the girl. This is her fault. Her fault for defying the fate rushing toward her.

Mara does not make personal posts—no long, rambling dissertations on her inner feelings under a mirror selfie, and no vague captions intended to elicit a flood of comments begging for more details.

I do what I want. I get what I want. Always. Every time.

I desire to see Mara again, to speak to her. I want to manipulate her and see how she reacts. And if I want something . . . that means it’s good.

Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams . . .” I smile to myself. Poor little Mara is not impervious to nightmares, whatever she may pretend during the daylight hours.

I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s addicting. The longer I spend in this room with her sheets, her half-empty perfume bottle, her dirty laundry, the more it fills my lungs, surging through my blood. I want it. Fresh from the source.

Even though that maniac didn’t rape me, I feel just as violated. There’s no way to compare trauma, and I don’t want to try. But the terror I felt, and the physical pain, can’t be that far off.

His hand hangs against my bare arm, his fingertips making erratic contact with the skin. Every time they do, I flinch like an insect has landed on me.

He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingertips graze the rim of my ear, the middle one dipping in toward the canal. I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted. “Jesus!” Josh says. “What’s wrong with you?” “Don’t touch my ears, I fucking hate that,” I snarl. “I’ve told you that before.” “I was touching your hair,” Josh rolls his eyes. “Just stay away from them,” I snap.

He slides his hand all the way up to my crotch, his fingers grazing my pussy lips. “Oh, you naughty little whore . . .” he murmurs, under his breath. “You’re not wearing any underwear . . .” He thinks I did it for him.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been irritated by the way a man touches me—actually, it happens a lot. I have sensory issues, sound and touch affecting me worst. Tonight I’m keyed up ten times worse than usual. I

I respect the hustle, but her existence is tawdry and depressing.

She’s wearing panties soaked in my cum without knowing it. The most intimate part of me pressed up against the most intimate part of her.

My pleasure evaporates as he reaches under the table to fondle her pussy. In its place: a sharp spike of fury. I want to rip that hand off his arm, leaving a ragged stump with a bare glint of bone.

What the fuck is happening. I almost feel . . . jealous. I’ve never been jealous before. Why would I? No one on this planet has anything I envy.

“Mr. Blackwell owns this building. It was his idea to discount the junior studios. He may not have the most cuddly persona, but he supports his fellow artists.”

The room tilts with a sickening jerk. I see a face that was burned into my brain, never to be forgotten. Shaggy dark hair. Silvery skin. A soft, sensual mouth. Eyes blacker than jet. It’s the man who stood over me. The one who left me to die. I’m staring at him open-mouthed, frozen in horror.

“I saw you,” she hisses. “I’ll tell the cops.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“That would cause a lot of problems for you. You’d lose the studio, of co...

“I own this city. With money, with connections, and with pure fucking talent. You try spouting off about me and see what happens . . . you’ll look unhinged. Unstable.” “I don’t care,” she whispers. I let out a low laugh. “You will,” I say.

He’s not gonna gaslight me. I know what I saw that night. He was standing there, staring down at me.

You can’t imagine what it’s like, having a daughter like you. All mothers love their children. All of them. If I don’t love you, what do you think that means? I read your journal. I know what you think, secretly, when you’re pretending to be so sweet. I know what you do alone in your bed. You’re disgusting. Disgusting.

“I don’t give a fuck what they want,” I snap. “I’m funding the grant and half their budget for the year, so they can suck it up and do as they’re told.”

“This is the only surviving piece by the greatest master in Italian glass. His techniques have yet to be surpassed in the modern era. And besides that, it’s fucking beautiful—look at it. Look how it glows. I wouldn’t sell it to Brisk if he cut his heart out of his chest and handed it to me.”

my seat, unable to meet their eyes. I’ve had a long and ugly history of people not believing me. Stories twisted, facts changed, people who weren’t what they seemed to be. It really starts to fuck with your sense of reality.

“I don’t need you,” I inform him. Cole snorts. “The fuck you don’t. You’re flat broke, no studio, barely making rent. No connections and no cash. You absolutely need my help.”