Page 61 of Lethal Saint

“Excuse me?” I demanded.

But his eyes were on my shoulders, my arms. The damned marks my dad left, scars faint but visible.

“Damien,” I pleaded. Desperate. Needy.

“Who did this to you?” he asked softly. Too softly. He caressed a knuckle across a barely-there bruise on my collarbone, his eyes sweeping over the covers like he could see my body underneath. I was still in my green dress, but I was more concerned about the dying flame of lust in his eyes than my state of half-dress.

“Damien, please,” I breathed, matching his volume. He didn’t look at me, didn’t lift his eyes at all, but I got the sense that pure, limitless rage filled the black depths of his eyes.

“Who,” he repeated, a tremor in his body, “did this to you?”

I swallowed, my desire throbbing but old fear rising, wrapping like a noose around my neck.

“Your brothers?” he asked.

“No.”

He dragged in a slow breath and stood, as taut as a bowstring and every bit as poised for violence.

“Your father,” he hissed.

I nodded, worried—about Damien, about the rage I sensed building all around him. I wanted him inside me but there was space between us now, and I didn’t like it. “Since I was little.”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. Nostrils flared.

“I’m okay now,” I reminded him, willing calm into my voice.

“No one,”he snarled, then stopped, visibly composed himself, and continued, gentler, “No one will hurt you again.”

I opened my mouth to sayI know,but Damien spun on his heel and strode from the room. Strode from the flat altogether.

CHAPTER 21

DAMIEN

Artur Ivanov escaped some time after six p.m. tonight. I’d silenced my phone so I didn’t find out until hours later, but Jonathan and Elijah—the other man in my inner circle—handled it. They followed Artur, Vasilisa’s oldest brother, and the idiot led them to a property in Chelsea owned by Armand fucking Finch.

The bastard was hiding my wife’s brothers, too. Her father could be inside, could be close enough to reach out and strangle the life out of.

“You need to calm the fuck down,” Jonathan grumbled, looming beside us like a moody shadow.

Eli snorted, giving me a knowing glance. “When have you ever known Damien to chill out when he’s in one of his moods? You know murder’s the only thing that makes him happy.”

“And mutilation,” Jonathan agreed.

“And my wife,” I added, frowning at the white-brick house as we stalked up the front steps, all three of us looking likedelinquents—me in black Armani, Elijah in a leather jacket that cost more than my suit, and Jonathan in his well-loved black denim. “And don’t act like you bastards didn’t let Artur out. No one’s ever got out of my workroom before.”

“Workroom.” Eli scoffed. “Torture dungeon more like.”

I shrugged. Both were accurate. I reached out to test the door handle, unsurprised to find it locked. Luckily, I had a giant bastard who loved breaking shit beside me. I swept my hand out. “After you, Knight.”

He grunted, either annoyed or excited. Sometimes it was impossible to decipher his grunts. Either way, I moved aside so he could ram his sizable shoulder into the glossy black door. When it only rattled, Eli smirked.

“You’re losing your touch, Knight.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jonathan grumbled and kicked the door in. “Consider that a preview of what I’ll do to your skull if you keep talking, shithead.”

Eli grinned, sharp and dangerous. Elijah Bloom was a man even I’d hesitate to cross, every bit as much a psychopath as Armand Finch. The difference was, Eli didn’t revel in violence; he inhaled it like it was life-giving air, like he needed it to survive. He looked normal compared to the rest of us; he might have arms big enough to crush cars and a smirk that hooked deep into his cheeks, but anyone would take one look at him, from his roughened face, short dark hair, and strong body clad in his signature leather jacket, and think he was an ordinary gym bro or athlete. I’d seen him lose his entire mind, though.

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