Turning a corner, I jump and let out a scream when I run into someone. “I’m so sorry,” I rush out when I see it’s Saint. My eyes drop to the snake tattoos that wrap around his neck, and I rub mine. Just the thought of them makes it hard to breathe as if they’re tightening, cutting off his air. “Lost?” he questions. “I’m, uh … hungry.” I stumble over my words. There were stories that I heard about the Spade brothers over the years. They are what nightmares are made of.
