Rating: R

The man fidgeted with the edge of his tunic. “Please, Sirs,” Synclair looked the man square in the eye with dead green eyes, the man, whether from fear or self preservation stepped back, “I have a matter that requires your undivided attention post haste.”

Synclair stood and stepped forward. The man to his credit didn’t move; however, Saint thought that from fear instead of nerves of iron. Synclair was seething with contempt. “Do you, Magistrate?” Synclair’s voice was that of the devil himself.

Saint sighed and hooked his knee over the arm of his chair. He was bored. “Kill him, Syn.”

“What?! No-” A gurgling flurry of blood seeped from the man’s mouth as Synclair’s knife sunk deeper into his chest. The man fell with a thud.

“Feel better?” Synclair asked while wiping his blade clean on the magistrate’s clothes.

Saint huffed with a shrug. “Not really. I’m still bored.”

Synclair waved his blade towards the door. “His men wait.” Synclair offered.

He considered the notion. “Dispatching them will not alleviate my boredom.”

“Well,” Synclair closed the distance between, “one way or another,” all too soon he loomed over Saint, one hand gripping either arm of his chair, “we will have to deal with them.”

“Perhaps after some entertainment first?” He reached for Synclair’s belt.

Synclair looked at him and something, barely a something, stirred in those lifeless green eyes. He didn’t love Synclair and Synclair certainly didn’t love him, in fact, he didn’t love anything. He killed his mother at the tender age of five for a toy and some candy. He felt no attachment to anything around him and neither did Synclair. That was until he met Synclair. This man made him feel something. Perhaps it was because Synclair was like him. Or Perhaps it was because Synclair was the only other human he could stand for longer than a moment.

Lips met his and something warmed in Saint for Synclair. They certainly weren’t normal but together they were extraordinary.