Page 66 of The Saint

It took her time to absorb that statement, her expression going through various stages of confusion, deeper confusion, and then shock. She’d been happy a moment ago, and now she looked devastated, like I should have just left it alone. “What do you mean, Bastien?”

“I’ll retire from the business. We can start a new life.”

“But you said?—”

“I know what I said. I changed my mind.”

“But why?” Her affection retreated. She left my lap and moved to the couch beside me. She seemed overwhelmed with emotion rather than joy, which was the opposite effect I’d intended.

“Because I love you, Fleur. Because I asked you to marry me, and you deserve everything you want. You deserve a man who puts you first. You shouldn’t have to compromise on a damn thing.” My life had changed when I’d met Fleur, but it had changed again when I asked her to marry me. All my priorities were different now. She was the single most important thing to me, and I’d feel like a worthless piece of shit, denying her what she wanted most. “So, whenever you want this to happen, we’ll make it happen.”

Her eyes drifted away like she needed time to come to terms with what I’d said. “I—I didn’t expect this.” Her dark hair was pulled back over one shoulder, and her eyes had an emotional depth that I hadn’t seen before. “I don’t want you to give up what you love either, Bastien.”

“But I don’t love it, Fleur. I love you.”

Her eyes came back to me.

My heart started to race as I felt it creep up my spine, the truth that I’d pretended was a lie for a decade. Broken shards started to fuse together once more, but somehow, the healing was more painful than the initial break. “You were right.”

She continued her stare, not a blink in sight.

I thought about what I’d said to Godric at the wedding, how fucked up in the head I was. “I did all of this to prove that I’m not the spineless, weak, unwanted boy my father said I was. But he’s long dead, and I can’t prove shit to a ghost. If I were truly a secure man, I wouldn’t care about proving a damn thing. But I’m not.”

Her eyes softened like she might start to cry.

“This job doesn’t mean anything. It’s you that means everything.” I’d made my billions, I’d proven that I was a greater man than my father was, proven that I was more successful than his favorite son.

But I was just as empty as I’d been the moment my father looked me in the eye and said he wished he’d never had me. I’d changed in a lot of ways, put on a hundred pounds of muscle and covered my scars with tattoos, was unrecognizable to most people who knew me as a boy, but underneath, I hadn’t changed one bit.

I’d been lying in my father’s blood and staring at the ceiling all this time.

“Bastien…” Her hand went to my arm, like she knew I was on the verge of tears that I would never shed, not even in front of her.I hadn’t cried since the night I’d killed my father, and I never would.

My eyes were on the fireplace when I grabbed her hand and cradled it to my mouth. I kissed her palm before I enclosed it in my fist and placed it against my heart. “You are my life now.”

“You sure about this?” Luca sat beside me in the back seat.

“Yeah.”

“Could be a trap.”

“Even if it is, I’ll be fine.” I opened the back door and got out before Luca could say anything else. It had just started to rain, but I let my clothes grow damp and my hair wet as I took my time approaching the doors to the restaurant.

The lights were on inside, showing a dimly lit steakhouse with a checkered tile floor. The grand fireplace against the wall was on and blanketed half of my visitor’s face in light and the other half in darkness.

No one else seemed to be there, and the table he occupied wasn’t directly next to any windows.

I approached the table and saw him up close, blond hair and blue eyes, his Russian features obvious. He had the nose for it too. He had a distinct scar from his eyebrow to his chin, like a knife had gutted him badly years ago.

We stared at each other for a hard minute before I took a seat.

He didn’t have a drink in front of him. Kept his hands above the table with his arms crossed—unspoken etiquette.

My elbows rested on the table, my hands together near my face.

Heavy silence passed, both of us staring at each other, trying to pierce the other’s bulletproof exterior. He reminded me of the cosmonauts I saw on TV, launching from Kazakhstan.

With men like us, this staring contest could last days.

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