Page 24 of Lethal Saint

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back soon,” I promised. “I need to talk to Jonathan about the wedding.”

She nodded, watching me from the corner of her eye as I left the room.

“Don’t,” I warned, lifting the phone back to my ear and striding through the living room and down the hall to my office.

“Little queen?” Jonathan asked, a rumble in his voice.

“Shut up,” I muttered, and then: “The thought of her being hurt makes me want to kill every living person on the planet.”

“Oh, good,” Jonathan murmured. “You’re obsessed. This is new.”

I shut my office door behind myself and sank into my desk chair. “I think I’m legitimately in love with her. Which is impossible, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

“And I genuinely can’t say no to her.”

“I can see how that’s a problem for you,” Jonathan said. I was ninety percent sure he was making fun of me. “Wait,what the fuck,did you say wedding?”

I winced. “She wants to marry me so Finch doesn’t have a claim on her.”

“You left that part out last night,” Jonathan growled.

I stayed silent. Waited.

“You treat her badly, and I’ll eviscerate you,” he warned. “But she’s probably right. Finch’ll hesitate if she’s yours. All that contract bullshit will fall apart.”

“That’s the plan,” I agreed. “Will you be our witness?”

Jonathan grunted.

“Best man?” I pressed.

He grunted again.

“Thank fuck,” I groaned.

Now all I needed was a nap. I was exhausted. But first, the shower was calling. I looked like shit, and my future wife deserved better.

CHAPTER 9

VASILISA

Iwasn’t stupid; I knew Damien was a bad man who did bad things to people. I heard what he said.Put him in the room next to Castro when you find him.

But he was good to me. And either he was playing a long, clever game to get my guard down so he could hurt me when I least expected it, or he was a criminal with a moral code. I’d heard of them—men who killed specific people who deserved it but wouldn’t harm a single hair on an innocent’s head. It was a baffling concept, but it made sense to me.

I stroked my thumb over the warm metal of my gun. I didn’t want to go out into the city and shoot just anyone. But I wanted to shoot Armand Finch so he left me alone, so he couldn’t do what he’d threatened to. I wanted to shoot my dad for all the ways he’d hurt me, for mistreating me so terribly that a man as violent as the Saint had to save me.

I waited until Damien’s voice carried too far to hear, not wanting to accidentally overhear something I wasn’t supposedto. He might not hurt me, but I wasn’t taking chances. Dad broke my wrist when I accidentally eavesdropped on a business deal three years ago. It still ached sometimes when it was cold outside.

I grabbed my second milkshake, held my gun firmly, and crept back through the sliding glass doors into the living room, wondering how the hell I’d missed the enormous pile of boxes and stiff paper bags on the floor and the coffee table. The chandelier on the ceiling cast glimmers of light over them, making the scene magical.

“There’s no way this is all for me,” I whispered, shooting a quick glance around the room, like someone would race out of the shadows, snap my hand away and scold me for touching these things. There had to be twenty boxes in a variety of sizes, and twice that many bags. I swallowed hard as I crept closer, my thumb rubbing the handle of my gun for reassurance, and my breathing stuttered when I read the names on them.

I recognised one bag before even reading the name—it was Tiffany blue. I hadn’t dared to hope but it reallywasa Tiffany bag. I peered at the other bags, hardly breathing. Bulgari. Cartier. Graff.

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