Page 27 of Lethal Saint

I nodded, something soft and fragile in my chest. “Yes, please.”

He kissed my crown again. Another inch loosened in my chest; I relaxed into his body, his arm around me feeling as good as it did as breakfast. Like a barrier between me and the world.

“Damien,” I whispered, my heart thumping my ribs.

“Yes, little queen?”

“What if I—want to cut it? My hair?”

“Then we’ll get your hair cut,” he promised, like it was such an easy thing to allow. Relief unwound the knots in my stomach.

“Now?”

His knuckles skimmed the line of my back. “It’ll take an hour to get a hairdresser out. Or,” he added, “I can cut it. I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, though.”

Not perfect. My chest began to tighten anew, but Damien wasn’t angry that my hair was curly or my makeup was a mess.You’re the queen here, Vasilisa. You make the rules.Maybe imperfections fit my new rules.

“I want you to cut it.”

“Done,” he agreed.

“And if I—if I want to wear something different?”

“Vasya, you can wear whatever you like. That’s your choice, not mine—not your father’s, not anyone else’s. Yours.”

Power flooded me like it had when I pointed the gun at him in the lift, and I straightened my shoulders a little. “There’s a red blouse in the living room, with daisies on the collar. I—I really want it, Damien.”

“It’s yours. I bought it for you.”

“It’s mine,” I said, testing out the words.

“I’ll go get it for you. And you can change into something you want to wear, not something youhaveto. Okay?”

He moved back, taking his warmth and reassuring touch with him and—

He… wasn’t wearing a shirt. A pair of grey sweatpants were slung low on his hips, the same ones he wore to breakfast, but he’d forgotten a shirt, like he’d come running when—when he heard me freaking out. Embarrassment heated my cheeks, tingling my ears. I hoped the remains of my makeup covered it.

“Back in a second,” he said, and ducked into the hallway, taking his lean body and all that wiry, powerful muscle with him. My uh, my fiancée had abs. My ears burned hotter. He also had a crest tattooed on his right shoulder blade; I saw it when he turned. Because I waswatchinghim.

I shook my head hard, shouting at myself inside my head. Words likewhoreandslutcame easily but he’d be my husband soon. There was nothing slutty about wanting my husband. Opportunities presented themselves all at once, and I tugged at the collar of the white shirt, heat flushing down my neck to my chest.

You’re the queen here, Vasilisa. You make the rules.

I’d spent so long fearing what would happen when Olivier used my body that I hadn’t considered I might offer it freely. The best I’d entertained was with Damien last night. Being taken in the shower or on the bed by a man who’d given me a gun and hadn’t harmed or threatened me.

It was a whole other thing to consider being an active, willing party instead of laying there and enduring it.

Consent. Permission.

What would it be like to be in bed with Damien, under all that taut, golden muscle? I shook my head again, trying to undo the sudden pulse of heat between my legs. I didn’t want to remember my training but—it was hard to forget the rush of pleasure they’d wrought from my body.

Disgust coiled my stomach, the nausea returning, but heat remained in my cheeks—and in my pussy. It flared when Damien strode back into the room with scissors and a comb in one hand, my gun in the other, and the dark red blouse slung over his arm, along with all the other clothes I wasn’t allowed.

You’re the queen here, Vasilisa. You make the rules.

I was allowed them. I made the rules. I was—staring at his body again.

I dragged my stare up to Damien’s face as he laid the clothes on the end of the bed, next to the chaos I’d made by searching for straighteners. Had he noticed me staring? I bit my bottom lip, my heart thumping my ribs.

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