All Chapters of Saints Don't Moan: Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

•Penelope•“I said no glue near your mouth, Noah.”I pulled the bottle gently from his hands before he could make a second attempt. The boys at Saint Jude’s Orphanage had a creative streak, which was a polite way of saying they spent most mornings testing how close they could get to trouble before someone stepped in.Noah pouted. “It smells good.”“I promise it doesn’t taste the same.”His friend giggled behind him, chewing on the edge of a crayon with the confidence of someone who had gotten away with it before. I let that one slide. Pick your battles.The classroom was warm, a little stuffy despite the cracked window above the bookshelf. Dust clung to the sunlight like it was afraid of falling. My sleeves were rolled up just enough to keep the cuffs from soaking in juice stains. Most of the younger children had already abandoned their coloring in favor of building towers with hymn books and the odd, uneven wooden blocks Sister Mary had insisted weren’t a choking hazard.One of the

•Miguel • The lounge was wrapped in low lights, and smoked coiled lazy spirals above the tables from cigars. I leaned back into the velvet-lined booth, cradling a glass Lagavulin between my fingers, Damien was holding court to my left, a brunette tucked against his side, her fake laugh cutting through the lounge like a cheap perfume. The blonde on his other arm looked half asleep, eyes glazed. This used to be my scenery, my zone and where I thrived in. But damn it all to hell the moment I met My Shell, her grey eyes glazed with tears pleading that I saved her life. My Penelope. Damien clinked his glass against mine with a smirk, his cufflinks catching the gold light as he stretched his arm along the back of the booth. “You gonna make me carry this whole damn table’s energy tonight?” he asked, nodding toward the brunette who was practically purring against him. “Pick one. They’re not shy.” I took a slow sip of the whiskey, letting the smoke settle on my

•Miguel• “Try this.” I held up the cream-colored blouse, half amused, half annoyed she hadn’t picked it herself. Penelope wrinkled her nose. “That’s something a kindergarten teacher would wear.” I arched a brow. “You work at an orphanage, you teach the children.” “okay, fine.” She snatched the blouse from my hand, brushing her fingers against mine. I couldn't tell if it was accidental or deliberate. I'd convinced her with little effort to go shopping with me and instead of giving me a sense of power all I felt was worry. I leaned against the display table, arms crossed. “You’ve tried on four dresses and rejected ten more. Are you planning to walk barefoot and in prayer robes through Oakridge?” “I didn’t realize this was your idea of fun.” She shot me a sideways glance as she examined another rack, completely ignoring my question. “You don’t strike me as the ‘mall date’ type.” “I’m not.” God, no. I usually sent assistants or ignored clothes altogether. But spe