Page 95 of Soulless Saint

His obvious disdain for Gregory Hart shone through his words without him needing to speak a single ill word against my father. There was definitely still some animosity there, because ultimately, my mother chose Gregory Hart over the revered Damien St. Vincent. She chose security over chaos. Light over dark.

Not that it did her any good in the end.

I wondered if he saw my father when he looked at me the way that I saw my mother in a casket when I looked at him.

“Damien,” Sloane warned again. “Why don’t you go put this in the fridge.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. It was red wine.

Obviously Damien wasn’t lying when he said they didn’t drink wine in this house.

“Sure thing, love,” Damien said, taking the bottle back from her while laying a kiss on her cheek. He lifted his gaze back to mine before leaving. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Um, yeah. Thanks,” I replied, praying whatever it was had booze in it. That was about the only way I was going to make it through this dinner.

When Damien was gone and I could breathe, I leaned forward to try to peer around the corner of the room to the right. “Are your sons here yet?”

I was sure they said six and the Uber had already been late.

“They should be here any minute.” Sloane assured me. “No matter how many times I threaten to withhold dessert they’re always late.”

I hung my purse and jacket on a hook by the door and followed Sloane deeper into the St. Vincent home.

She ushered me through the dining room, already set up for dinner, and into a warm living room where music filtered low from an old record player. Castle Walls by the Styx filled the room and somehow, that seemed so… unthreatening… that I relaxed a little as I sat down on the sofa, pressing my hands between my knees.

Damien came back with three short glasses filled with golden liquid, distributing one first to his wife and then to me.

He must’ve sensed my confusion because he stood above me, cocking his head. “Do you prefer yours with ice?”

“Uh…”

I looked down into the glass, the acrid, peaty smell of scotch tickling my nose.

“There’s beer in the fridge if you’d prefer,” Damien offered, but there was an unmistakable challenge in his stare. And fuck if I didn’t want to win, show him I wasn’t the spoiled little rich girl he so clearly saw me as.

“No, this is fine.”

“Not a whiskey girl, I take it?”

He fell onto the cushion next to his wife, on the loveseat that ran perpendicular to the one I sat on.

I lifted my chin. “Actually, I prefer it to wine. But I’m more of a rye girl as opposed to whiskey or scotch.”

“Is that so?”

Smug bastard.

“Yes,” I said, plastering on a sweet smile. “Crown Royal is my favorite.”

Damien dipped his head appreciatively. “A good everyday drinker,” he agreed. “But it pales in comparison to a good scotch. That there is a single malt. Aged 16 years. Give it a try.”

I put the glass grudgingly to my lips as the front door opened and I heard Kaleb shout, “Ma, we’re here!”

But Damien’s haughty stare never wavered, waiting for me to try his fancy ass scotch. I took a tentative sip and let it mellow in my mouth. At first there was only the hard bite of malty alcohol, but within a few seconds other flavors started to show themselves. That peatiness I’d smelled when he first handed me the glass. But also smoke and vanilla.

I felt my brows rise as I swallowed it down, relishing the burn and the non totally unpleasant after taste.

“That beats grape juice any day of the week.”

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