Page 25 of Lethal Saint

“Graff?” I hissed, casting another look around the room. “Is he insane?”

This was… I didn’t even know how much money. Too much money. My heart pounded. I didn’t dare touch the bags, so I set down my milkshake on a scrap of free space on the glass coffee table and stroked the sharp edge of one of the cardboard boxes. He must have spent hours ordering all this; there was so much stuff.

I shook my head with a laugh. “He probably has people to do that for him.”

He wasthe Saint.Damien Marshall, the killer even killers feared. He wouldn’t manually add all this stuff to a cart. Not for me.

But…he must have had someone order this last night, and I wasn’t even his fiancée then. He’d promised to find another way, that I didn’thaveto marry him.

Stubborn man didn’t listen when I said Iwantedto.

Everything inside them is for you.That’s what he said before he left to take his phone call. But surely he didn’t mean the Graff diamonds were for me.

“He’s insane,” I whispered, so quiet only I could hear, and turned the box to face me, reading the name and address there. Damien Marshall. I would be Vasilisa Marshall soon. And it would have to be soon; how long did I have before Finch began hunting me?

You have more than one hole, and I have plans to fuck that virgin ass until you bleed. I know you’ll cry and scream, Vasya, but I’ll love every minute of it.

I flinched and ripped the tab to open the box in one rough movement, taking my fear and rage out on the box. It had been a long time since I’d had the liberty to shop or unbox gifts. Usually I found new clothes hung in my wardrobe and Anna laid them out for me to wear. The rough, scowling woman answered to my father and made sure I didn’t step out of line.

Damien had mentioned a maid, his friend, but she wasn’t here now and she’d been absent last night, too. Would everything change when she arrived? Would she make sure I behaved and fit Damien’s expectations? Maybe that was why he could afford to be kind; he’d employed people to be cruel for him.

“It’s still better than marryinghim,”I whispered, reminding myself of the alternative as I reached into the box and lifted out—a plastic bag.

Ugh, I forgot how many layers of packaging everything had when ordered online. I carefully peeled the bag open, checking over my shoulder like I was doing something wrong, and exhaled a sharp breath when silk glided over my fingers.

My worries were silenced for a moment as the dress glided down to the floor, made of the darkest green fabric. The style was sleek and figure hugging, with gold chains as straps and three rows of chain across the midriff. It was beautiful, and envy filled my chest as I held it. I couldn’t wear this, no matter how beautiful.

Carefully, I folded it back into the bag and opened another box, a smile tugging my lips when I found pyjamas of the fuzziest, warmest fleece. Like my onesie. Well, like Damien’s onesie that he’d leant me. I tried to imagine him ever wearing this fluffy bear outfit and my smile deepened. I set the pyjamas on a separate pile to the green dress, my confidence growing. Witheverything inside them is for youon repeat in my head, I tore open all the others.

By the time I was done, I was surrounded by empty boxes, tissue paper, and so many clothes it was insane. I kept the elegant, sexy ones to the side, no matter how luxurious the lace, tulle, and velvet was, and no matter how much my heart filled with longing when I looked at one dark red blouse in particular. It had daisies embroidered around the collar and cuffs, but it was transparent and far too dark a colour for me. I wore pastels and white.

Still, my belly filled with butterflies when I looked over all the gifts. I didn’t even care what Damien wanted in exchange for this. There was everything I could ever need in life—give or take a few fantasy books, an embroidery hoop and a rainbow of colours to sew, and music. I needed music.

But I had underwear—both practical and racy—plus socks and tights, sleepwear, a dozen outfits, the same number ofdresses, shoes, three coats, a hat for every weather phenomena, a fuzzy blanket, Dior and YSL makeup (which was insane), a Lancôme perfume I wasn’t entirely sure was released yet, skincare five times as expensive as my things at home, and even a set of towels and cloths with cute penguins on their borders.

“He’s definitely insane,” I whispered, piling all my bounty into two of the biggest boxes and balancing them in my arms so I could carry them to the room he’d given me last night. Damien. My fiancée. My soon-to-be husband.

Those butterflies were back, along with a lifting of the ever-present dread in my chest. It was still there, and I wasn’t sure the anxiety would ever leave, but some of it melted away. I felt… appreciated. Wanted. It was a strange and new feeling, and I knew I had a smile on my face when I ran back into the living room to clear up the empty boxes and put the clothes I couldn’t accept in a neat stack on the table.

My mood was completely buoyant as I hurried back to my room and swapped my onesie for clean underwear—thank fuck—a white shirt with cap sleeves and a pretty yellow dress that hit mid thigh and was covered in tiny ditzy flowers.

I let out a sigh when I glanced down at myself. This was better than the onesie. This was pretty, feminine,right.

Clothes shouldn’t have eased some of my fear, shouldn’t have stopped panic buzzing over my skin, but I felt better like this. Like I’d stepped into an old, familiar uniform. It didn’t matter that my heart yearned for the dark red blouse and a black skater skirt I’d left in the living room; these clothes wereright.

Everything needed to be perfect. Damien saved me, killed a room full of people for me. He deserved perfect.

Speaking of perfect… I grabbed my new makeup and hurried into the bathroom, almost giddy with excitement to use it. I’d wanted one of these gold pens for as long as I could remember, and twisting it now, hearing the little click, filled me withsomething light and bubbly. Happiness, but not quite. I couldn’t be happy when in the back of my mind I knew I was far from safe.

That didn’t stop me grinning as I applied my makeup, sorting through the eyeshadow palettes Damien—or more likely his maid—had ordered until I found a soft yellow to match the dress. For a moment I yearned to grab the liquid eyeliner and draw a sharp cat eye, but I didn’t know how to make the precise flick, and it wouldn’t suit me anyway. I’d look like a child playing dress up, so I stuck to mascara.

You look like a whore,Dad’s voice whispered from my memory, deceptively soft because one of his business partners was there, drinking whiskey in our sitting room.Go wash that ridiculous paint off your face. You’re not a whore; you’re an Ivanov. You don’t want people to get the wrong idea about you, do you, Vasilisa?

I swallowed, staring at myself in the mirror, my stomach knotting over and over until my insides were a tangled mess. It was okay, I was okay. I’d done everything right, and he wasn’t here. Dad wasn’t here; he wouldn’t come near Damien.

I exhaled slowly, trying to push out some of the sickness with it, but my eyes snagged on my hair. My unbound,curlyhair.

“Oh, god,” I gasped, panic hitting so hard that I couldn’t breathe in a matter of seconds.

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