Page 16 of Lethal Saint

Was she suicidal? And was I really surprised after what she’d been through? I didn’t dare ask about her life before tonight, even if I was absolutely fuckingseethingat the idea of her being trained to lose her virginity.

Who put their hands on her? Were they all in that room tonight, or were there others who deserved to die?

“He’s going to come for me,” she whispered, reaching for the gun again and clutching it close. At least I’d done that right tonight; the gun calmed her, like a comfort blanket with bullets.

“Your father can’t—” I began.

“My fiancée,” she cut me off, her accent thickening and a shudder going through her. I slid the bowl of food across theworktop though her body language told me getting her to eat would be an uphill battle. But it was something Dad always drilled into us; after a shock, a fight, a torture session, whatever the fuck we went through, we needed to sit down, talk shit through, and eat a meal.

“Your…” I scrubbed a hand over my jaw. “Who is he?”

Her throat jumped in a hard swallow. She didn’t uncurl her fingers from the gun but she took the fork I handed her and absently scooped up food. I’d meant to point out that I made it all in front of her so I couldn’t have poisoned or drugged it, but she didn’t hesitate, didn’t even ask. Was shethatscared of her fiancée?

I wanted to storm around the island and pull her into a hug, but I locked every muscle in my body and stayed put.

She put the fork down before she could eat a single grain of rice. Shit.

“Armand Finch,” she whispered, not looking at me.

I stiffened. Armand Finch was the kind of man even Dad didn’t want to cross, one he’d warned us to stay the fuck away from. But fire laced my blood now, and protectiveness still buzzed through me. I didn’t regret saving her, didn’t regret killing all those bastards. I wouldn’t regret killing Armand Finch if he came for her, either.

Even if Finch was old school, had three times the numbers we did, and a network that could reach most places in London…

Fuck.

“He won’t find you here,” I said, lacking any other reassuring words.

Shit. Armand Finch fucking bought her? As his wife? The man was fifty, scarily intelligent, a total psychopath, and his last wife died under mysterious circumstances. Mysterious as in how he escaped prison for murdering her. No way was he gettinganywhere near Vasilisa. I curled my hands into fists but forced them to unclench so I didn’t scare her.

She shook her head, a soft, derisive laugh escaping in a breath. “He’ll find me. He bought me—that was the deal my dad made. He’d sell my—sellmeto Olivier for one night, and then I’d be sent to my husband.”

She swallowed, but I stayed quiet, sensing she wasn’t done. Rage curdled my stomach but I shoved food into my mouth and chewed, hoping she’d follow my example.

“If he wanted my…virginity, he had to pay both fees.” She stared at her bowl, her fingers clenched around the gun as she shrugged. “He refused.”

I had to take a calculated breath so I didn’t completely fucking lose it. She talked about herself being bought and sold so casually, like being a product was natural to her.

“Vasilisa, look at me,” I said, fighting to keep the rage out of my voice. When her brown eyes met mine, I very slowly said, “You’re a person, not a thing, not a possession—you cannot be bought. There’s no amount of money on this goddamn Earth that could buy a person’s worth.”

Her eyes widened. She didn’t say anything but it was all right there in her expression. These were words no one had ever said to her before.

“I don’t care how rich or powerful these bastards are—werein the case of Olivier. You cannot be bought. It’s not only inhumane but it’s illegal and it’s bullshit.”

She swallowed, and I recognised her nervousness, the sign she was about to speak. “You killed a hundred people. Why does it being illegal matter?”

“There’s a difference between killing someone who deserves it andsellingsomeone.”

Despite my name, I was far from a Saint. My family was knee-deep in the black market, we imported a nice chunk ofcocaine every month, and we had a few legitimate businesses that served as a front for somenotso legitimate. But we didn’t touch the skin market. Or slave traders as they preferred tonotbe called. There were grey lines, girls working in our clubs who were so desperate their work bordered it being against their wishes. But they were given opportunities, and ultimatums at worst—not threats, orders, and fists meeting their bodies if they said no.

I didn’t even want to think about what the shower had revealed on Vasilisa’s body. I’d only got a glimpse of scars and yellowed skin but even that was enough to throw kerosene on my rage.

“You’re angry,” she pointed out.

“Furious,” I agreed. “I don’t doubt this shit goes on every day, and in my own city, but it makes me fucking murderous. Did you see a single penny of what your father got for selling you?”

She laughed softly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. He’s a piece of shit. That’s what makes me livid—people being taken advantage of, women being exploited.”

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