Page 7 of Lethal Saint

“Tonight you are. Get the keys from Gent’s pocket and bring the car to the front doors.”

“Aye aye, dickhead.”

I didn’t let myself breathe until footsteps sounded, and I prayed to god they left so I could crawl to—where? Where would I go? I couldn’t go to my room when there was a massacre in the ballroom below. My brothers—if they were here, they were dead. If they weren’t, anywhere they’d gone was the opposite of a safe space. But where could I—

I froze entirely, my mind going deadly still, even my thoughts silent when soft footsteps approached.

Don’t come up the dais, please don’t come up the dais.

But God hated me because those soft footsteps came closer, echoing around the terrifyingly silent ballroom.

“It’s alright to sit up now, Vasilisa,” the Saint said in his soft, burred voice.

I knew better than to give myself away by replying. But my lungs screamed for air, my body fighting me harder with every second. Didn’t it realise how close to death we were? Didn’t they know Death himself stalked towards us?

“They’re all dead. No one’s going to touch you, and no one will hurt you again.”

My head spun, dizziness rolling through me. As if I’d believe those promises.

“It means queen, doesn’t it?” the Saint asked, never raising his voice but hovering over the bed, waiting to pounce and steal what Olivier had bid for. I knew what he wanted; it was what they all wanted.

A hand pressed flat to my stomach and applied pressure, forcing my mouth open. I sucked in a violent breath against my will, then another and another, like I’d been drowning.

“Here, Vasilisa.”

I flinched when the Saint’s golden hand neared me, scrambling up the bed and shrieking when I nearly fell off the edge. There was no headboard. Of course; it would have blocked the view.

Panting, shaking, I stared at the man perched on the edge of the mattress, dressed in a fine suit the likes of which only accompanied deadly men. The expression on his stubbled face was calm, patient. Lies. My father could look patient, too. It was a trick.

My head spun. The other Marshall saidIvanov did a runner,so Dad wasn’t dead. Why did panic and disappointment settle on my chest like a weight?

“Take it,” the Saint said softly.

I jumped hard when I realised he was pointing a gun at me and—

No, the barrel was aimed away from me. Thehandlewas aimed at me. I didn’t think, didn’t question my good fortune;I snapped my hand out and grasped it, holding the gun to my chest like a lifeline. I was so fucking stupid. Now he had my fingerprints on a gun and could frame me for the murder of everyone here.

“Good girl,” the Saint said, his voice quiet. His black eyes never left my face, depthless and laced with danger. “The safety’s on so you don’t accidentally discharge it, but do you know how to remove it?”

I swallowed hard, shook harder. Nodded.

“Good, then you can shoot me if I hurt you. Which I won’t.” He held eye contact when I darted a panicked look at his face, and my stomach roiled, sickness thrashing. “Can you stand?”

What?

I must have done a poor job of hiding my shock because he explained, “I don’t trust a single one of your family not to hurt you, and your father will probably crawl back here like the rat he is. I promise if you come with me, I won’t hurt you. I won’t touch you without your consent.”

My mouth dried. That word again. I glanced down at the gun. Was consent the name of the gun?

“Yeah,” the Saint said with a gentle smile. “If I ever do something without your permission, you shoot me.”

Oh. Permission. That was what it meant. No wonder Dad had never bothered teaching me that word; I didn’t need to give permission foranything.He decided what I did and didn’t do.

“I’m gonna back off and let you stand. You just shout or gesture if you need help, okay?”

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I should have nodded but I was in so much shock, I couldn’t remember how to function.

I curled my fingers tighter around the gun and climbed unsteadily to my feet. I could run. I could try, at least. I had a gunnow. But—why did he give it to me? He knew there was a chance I’d shoot him, so why arm me?

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