Page 14 of Lethal Saint

He was watching me. Heat prickled my ears, burning my face when I noticed the Saint’s attention, his black eyes strangely soft and a smile on his face.

“Do you have any allergies?”

Huh? I shook my head.

“Then how about a stir-fry? I’ve got some leftover rice I can use to make egg-fried rice, too.”

He was… serious about making me food.

“Okay,” I agreed, not entirely sure I liked those things. I usually had chicken and salad, but the ice cream made me bold, and I wanted to try other things I’d missed out on.

“Don’t ever be afraid to speak with me, Vasilisa,” he said, opening a fridge I mistook as another cupboard and pulling out ingredients. “If there’s something on your mind, I want to hear it. I’m guessing your father was the opposite, but don’t hold your tongue here. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed even if he was completely, entirely mad. Speaking my mind was what caused the bruise yellowing on my ribs. Dad had been careful not to make any new ones this week with the auction and—and tonight—but others remained as reminders, the makeup hiding them now washed away.

“I’ve known men like him all my life,” the Saint said, washing vegetables a little too aggressively. “Bullies. Assholes. I’m sorry he hurt you, little queen.”

A lump formed in my throat. I shook my head and ate another small bite of ice cream, trying to make it last forever even though I knew that was impossible. “It’s my fault for—”

“No,” he said firmly, the tone making my breath catch and goosebumps flash down my arms. “The shit he did tonight, what he tried to make you do,noneof that was your fault. My dadwouldneverdo that to my sisters. There’s something wrong with Boris, something rotten and evil.”

And that was coming from a mass murderer whose father wasthe King.

“I might not know everything else he’s done, but I’m pretty damn confident in saying none of that was your fault, either. There are lines parents shouldn’t cross. Ever. Did he ever touch you? Like those groping bastards did tonight?”

I shoved more ice cream in my mouth and shook my head. “That only happened this week. In my training and—tonight.”

It took far more effort to speak than it should have, and my hands shook, my body braced, ready for retaliation. But even though the Saint’s mouth thinned and a muscle fluttered in his stubbled jaw, he only chopped vegetables. He didn’t lash out. I frowned.

“Training,” he said, his voice even raspier, gravelly and deep. “He trained you for tonight?”

I glanced at the ice cream, then at my gun. “Not him. His friends.”

The Saint didn’t reply, only took a rough inhale. Another warning zipped down my spine like frost, making me shake harder.

He beheaded a pepper. “What he did,everythinghe did, was wrong. So fucking wrong. He should have protected you, not been the one to put you through that.”

The Saint took a harsh breath, his hand clenched around the knife. I watched him carefully, terrified but perplexed too. He was angry at my dad? For the auction and the training? I swallowed down the words on my tongue—I’m angry too. I think it’s wrong, too.

“And I’m sorry my own damn uncle was there, participating in your abuse. He willnevertouch you again.”

Because he killed him. I stared at the Saint when he began cutting mushrooms and carrots. He’d killed his uncle because he touched me?

“Because of me?” I breathed, the words slipping out before I could stop them. He glanced up, the anger mellowing in his eyes, so I forced out the rest, the question burning my chest. “You killed them because of me? For me?”

“I killed them because every single one of them would have assaulted you, and sexual assault flips me from a normal, calm human being to a weapon concerned only with annihilation.”

I sucked in a breath. Weapon—that fit him well.

“Because no one, certainly not you, deserved to go through what they intended to do.” His stubbled jaw clenched; he didn’t look at me as he threw vegetables into a pan, oil crackling loudly and making me jump back with a gasp. “Usually, shit like tonight occurs in seedy clubs and it’s the woman doing the brokering. Selling herself because, for whatever reason, she needs the money. I’ve never seen a man sell his own daughter. How old are you, Vasilisa?”

I’d run out of ice cream. I had no distractions left. “Nineteen.”

The Saint’s dark eyebrows rose. I knew what he was thinking.

“I’m surprised he didn’t do it sooner, too,” I murmured, testing out this whole speaking my mind thing. “I’m lucky.”

The Saint didn’t reply, didn’t seem to have words. He agitated the frying vegetables, each movement snapping and angry.

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