Page 6 of Lethal Saint

“I prefer my women to consent,” the Saint said, his soft voice dangerous. Cold. “And do you consent, Vasilisa?”

I froze. I didn’t know that word.

“Of course she does,” Dad said, throwing me a sharp command with his eyes.

“Of course I do,” I breathed, hoping to Hell that consent wasn’t an intricate sex move. No one had taught me positions except to lay on my back and endure whatever my partner did.

“I see,” the Saint said, earning a smile from my dad. I didn’t think he should be smiling. My head swam as my breathing thinned. I didn’t think he should be smiling at all, because I didn’t think the Saint was a friend.

He was a threat.

And as Dad finally led me the final steps towards the bed and Olivier stepped out of the crowd—balding, old enough to be my grandfather and even more leering than the Gent—most of my awareness was on that threat.

My legs shook as I climbed onto the dais and lay on the bed, keeping my legs together as I was taught, because he’d want to part them himself. My dad clapped Olivier on the back, like he’d done something to be congratulated on, and then the highest bidder climbed up onto the dais, crawling over me.

My skin burned, my stomach roiling, but I could do this. It was this or death, and being shot terrified me more than a life filled with pain and suffering.

I don't want to die.

I forced myself to relax, willed myself not to throw up when Olivier’s wrinkly hand squeezed my knee and guided my thighs apart.

Blood roared in my ears like thunder.

Olivier licked his lips and knelt between my legs. Goosebumps covered me when he reached for his belt, the rattling of the buckle making this all too real. And then liquid splashed my chest.

For a moment I didn’t realise what it was. Had the old man spat on me, or did he already come without forcing his dick inside me, or—blood. It wasblood.I was coveredin blood.

A scream bubbled up my throat, but I threw my hands over my mouth as Olivier fell to the mattress beside me, a hole blown through his wrinkled throat and his head half hanging off.

He’d… been shot?

I flinched, a cry of fear escaping when I realised it wasn’t my blood pounding erratically in my ears; it was gunfire.

“Run!”someone roared. “Get out!”

Dad…?

Trembling, I pressed my body flat to the bed and prayed the gunman thought I was already dead. My naked body was covered in a spray of Olivier’s blood; I could pretend to be dead if it saved me.

Was this… was ithim?My fiancée? Had he come for revenge on my dad for selling my virginity? Would he kill me for allowing him to sell it, even though I had no say over my life?

I didn’t move a single muscle as the ballroom fell apart, gilded mouldings shattering off the walls, holes blast through the ornate floor, crystal spears crashing from the chandelier. The opulence was destroyed piece by piece.

The tone of gunfire deepened, like the gunman had swapped to another gun, and it happened again and again, like he was—oh god, he was stealing guns from Dad’s murdered friends, wasn’t he? Robbing the corpses he’d created.

I pressed my hand harder over my mouth to keep my whimpers trapped. I held my breath to cut off my breathingcompletely when the clamour died away, silence ringing through the ballroom louder than any gunshot.

“Fuck’s sake, Damien. You killed the Gent?” someone demanded, gruff and annoyed but casually, like someone had presented him with a plate of fried eggs when he ordered scrambled. Not serious enough for the massacre I knew must be around me.

I knew who’d done it. I saw the murder in his eyes, heard it in his soft voice. The Saint had come here to kill my family like he’d killed the Maitland brothers.

“You saw him,” the Saint replied in that raspy voice, sending a shiver of pure, primal fear through my body. “He wasn’t just complicit in this shit; he fuckingrevelledin it. He put his hands on a girl without her permission.”

The owner of the gruff voice grunted. “Ivanov did a runner.”

“We’ll deal with him later. Go get the car.”

“I’m not your fucking chauffeur.”

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