Page 2 of Lethal Saint

I thought it would be one time, people would watch, and then I could escape. But how many…? How many times would I be forced to endure killers and criminals taking their rage out on my body? Forcing me to bend to their control?

What if some of them twisted my disgust into pleasure like some of the men who trained me? I couldn’t keep the fear out of my eyes, couldn’t stop the stutter of my breathing.

“Even you must have heard of the Gent and the Saint, from the Marshall family.”

The blood drained from my face. I knew our family were criminals, knew my dad was a monster—any visitors we had gave him a healthy dose of respect—but there were criminals and there werethe Marshalls.

I was sheltered, kept shielded from the family business, but whispers travelled, especially through household staff. The Gent was the brother of the head of the family, the man everyone in London seemed to be terrified of, known only as the King. I’d overheard stories about the Gent being cold and cruel with his lovers, discarding each woman as soon as he was bored. But the stories of the Saint weren’t from one night stands or exes.

The one that made my blood chill was a story from last year, when the Maitland brothers tried to sell them out for a deal and a reduced prison sentence. The night before their hearing, the Saint broke into their house while they were in the middle of a send-off party and killed every last one of their family, the brothers included. Thirty-six people, murdered by a single man. Rumours said he killed the brothers with his bare hands.

“I’ve heard of them,” I rasped, fighting a shiver.

My fear of Olivier was eclipsed by a whole new terror. Olivier was a crooked businessman with more money than sense. He’d never committed mass murder.

And my dad wanted me to let the Saint fuck me?

I wasn’t going to survive tonight.

But the second I protested, the cold barrel of a gun would meet my head. I’d die like Mum died.

My heart skipped when Dad stepped back and nodded, finding no other flaw that needed to be addressed. “You’re ready, Vasilisa. Remember your training, and follow me.”

CHAPTER 2

DAMIEN

“Really, Castro?” I sighed, removing my knife from the flap of skin I was carving off the man’s arm and taking a step back when piss spread along the floor of my workroom. “Again?”

I could already see droplets on the shiny leather of my new Louboutins, but that was what I got for dressing up for a torture session. I could buy ten new pairs without batting an eye, but that wasn’t the point. They were new, pristine, and now flecked with piss.

I pressed my mouth into a thin line and moved around the puddle under the man who hung from the hook attached to the ceiling. I loved this room, loved every feature and design even if most of my family thought I was a psycho. And coming from a family of psychopaths, that was saying something.

“Let’s try again, but without your bladder tainting my floor.” The liquid was already trickling down the drain beneath Seb Castro, but that wasn’t the point. Heshouldpiss himself in fear;Seb was a rich, twenty-something arrogant fool who thought he could threaten my family because he wanted one of our clubs—and he went through my baby sister to get it.

The Castros were about to learn a valuable lesson about fucking with a Marshall, especially Rae and Wyn. The twins were eighteen, practically fucking babies, and complete opposites except in one regard: they thought they were untouchable.

Keeping them out of trouble, and away from men farworsethan trouble, had resulted in more than one pool of blood swirling down to drain in my favourite room.

I circled Castro. “Why are you fixated on the club on George Street? As good as the booze and women are, I know you’re not in it for them. So what’s your family’s game?”

When he only moaned pitifully, I sighed and opened another long slice on his other hand, beginning the slow, settling process of carving through skin and muscle. This shit was calming for me, my version of yoga, meditation, and those colouring books that were everywhere a few years ago. Mindfulness—that’s what cutting apart my enemies was.

I got so involved, my heart rate slowing and all the weight on my chest lifting, that I missed a knock on the door. Ihadto have missed it, because there was no way my uncle would be stupid enough to just let himself in while I was busy.

He tutted, circling the pool of blood and piss trickling into the grate, and walking closer to me than was advisable.

I slanted a look at him in between precise cuts, unease pinching my gut when I saw Gentian’s greying, gold hair slicked back from his face and his slim body decked out in his finest suit. Whatever he wanted, he could fuck off. I was busy.

“Damien,” he greeted with a shit-eating grin, kicking the door shut behind himself.

I widened the slice in Seb Castro’s arm, my annoyance making it bite deeper, the cut uneven. I pressed my lips intoa thin line, not even Castro’s scream taking the edge off my irritation. I had a lock on that fucking door for a reason. I needed to move it to theinsideof the door. That way my family couldn’t waltz in on a whim.

I loved every single one of the bastards in my family, but for a moment I debated stabbing Gentian—better known to most as the Gent—just to get him to piss off.

“Always busy, always working,” he chided, keeping his distance from the blood and piss but edging closer. “You need to relax, my boy. Unwind.”

“No,” I replied flatly, shutting down whatever he wanted.

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