Page 51 of Lethal Saint

Please. I don’t want to go back to him. I don’t want him to hurt me again.

The lift jerked to a halt. The doors crawled open and—

A small, broken sound filled my throat when I saw the man waiting for me, shirtless and barefoot in rumbled black trousers.

“Damien,” I sobbed and threw myself out of the lift and into his arms.

He expelled a hard breath, his arms closing tight around me, face ducked to inhale a slow, unsteady breath.

“I thought—I thought he was here—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, squeezing me in his arms. “I’ve got you, Vasilisa.”

“I didn’t know—I forgot—I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh,” he soothed, drawing back so he could scan my face, breaking apart my shields with panic-sharp black eyes, reading every emotion. “You don’t have to be sorry. You’re safe. You’re safe,” he repeated, like he was assuring himself.

A weight fell off my shoulders and I melted into him, resting my head against his chest. The rapid thump of his heart was so reassuring that my eyes burned. Armand Finch wasn’t here, and that monster wasn’t my fiancée. Damien was my husband, my shield. Forever.

“Let’s go home, my queen,” he said after a long hug, neither of us caring that we were in the middle of the hallway, the lift having grown impatient minutes ago and closed its doors.

My tight chest eased as he guided me back to the apartment I’d been so determined to escape. It wasn’t a cage, had never been that. It was a shield, just like my husband.

“You owe me a kiss for that escape attempt,” Damien said, the ragged edge leaving his voice.

He kept his arm around me when he closed the door behind us, arming the lock again. I’d never been trapped; the door was so stupidly easy to unlock.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “You’re not mad?”

“What I am is waiting for my kiss.”

He should have been furious. Murderous. I didn’t understand why he wasn’t angry, but maybe his wrath was slow burning. Or maybe, like every moment since I met him, Damien was a confusing puzzle of kindness and care. Maybe he wasn’t angry at all.

I tipped my head up and kissed him, slow and soft, lingering for as long as I dared.

“I wasn’t trying to escape you,” I said, glancing at the keys in my hand, at the shallow cuts on my palm, unable to hold eye contact. “I—”

“Talk to me, my queen,” he encouraged, stroking a wild curl out of my face, the backs of his fingers caressing my cheek.

“I had a nightmare. Again,” I added and bit my lip.

“Hm,” he said, quiet and… I couldn’t make out the emotion behind the tone. “That’s my fault. I should have fucked you so good you didn’t have the strength left to dream.”

My mouth fell open in surprise.

He tucked the curl behind my ear; it sprang free, earning a smile from my husband. “Come on, I’ll make breakfast.”

I reached out and snagged his wrist when he turned. “Damien, I—I heard someone in the flat. I thought it washim,but I’m sure I heard someone.”

I squeezed his wrist, panic lancing through my chest again.

“That’ll be Rose,” he said gently, lips finding mine in a quick brush of reassurance. “She’s here to clean the place on Tuesdays and Fridays. And before you grow thorns, my vicious, jealous, sexy as hell wife, I’ve never seen her in that way. She has her own reasons to avoid a relationship.AndI’m completely, obsessively devoted to you.”

The stirrings of insecurity were blasted apart by his fervent words. I glanced away, the heat of a blush in my cheeks.

“I’m devoted to you, too,” I said, flicking a glance at him and not missing how damngoodhe looked, all rumpled and casual, his shirt absent. Oh. Because I was wearing it. “Completely.”

“Obsessively?” he pressed.

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