Page 44 of Made for Saints

The car was silent except for the low hum of the engine, but the tension between us was deafening. I needed to get away from her, to put some distance between us before I did something even more reckless.

Like lay her down in the back seat and fuck her until the leather was slick with her arousal. My cock stirred thinking about that image.

I pulled into a plaza without thinking, the neon lights of a sandwich shop catching my eye. The rain had started, a light mist that blurred the windshield and softened the harsh glow of the signs.

“A sandwich?” Emilia’s voice broke the silence, laced with disbelief. “The great Diavlo needs a sandwich?”

I shot her a look, my lips twitching despite myself. “Even the devil needs to eat, princess.”

The devil.

The word rolled around in my head, sharp-edged and too familiar. It wasn’t the first time someone had called me that, but hearing it from her lips made it sound different—softer, almost teasing. In my world, the name carried weight, fear, and power, but the way she said it made me think she wasn’t afraid of me at all. And maybe that was the problem.

Her scoff was soft, barely audible, but I caught the faintest trace of amusement in her tone. “Didn’t peg you for the type to stop at a place like this. Thought you’d have a private chef or something.”

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head as I opened the door and stepped into the rain. “Usually, I do. But even the bestchefs get a day off. And sometimes, simplicity is underrated.”

The truth was, I didn’t give a damn about the sandwich. I just needed the excuse—to breathe, to think, to get a grip on the chaos spiraling inside me.

Getting out of the car the rain hit my face like a shock of cold reality, grounding me for a moment. I inhaled deeply, letting the cool mist settle over my skin, a reprieve from the fire that had been burning in my chest since she stepped into my car earlier.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the way she’d said it. The devil. It wasn’t just a nickname. It was a reminder. A label I’d earned through years of calculated ruthlessness. A name whispered in fear by enemies and, sometimes, in awe by allies.

But when she said it, it wasn’t fear or awe. There was challenge in her voice, defiance sparkling in her dark eyes. And damn it, if it didn’t make me want to prove to her exactly why I’d earned the title.

I glanced back through the rain-streaked window. Emilia sat in the passenger seat, her arms folded across her chest, her lips pursed like she was trying to convince herself she didn’t care where we’d stopped. But I knew better. She was watching me. Even when she was trying to look unimpressed, her gaze followed my every move, like she was trying to figure me out.

And for some reason, that made me smile.

Pulling out my wallet I leaned back into the car, handing her my black card with a smirk. “Get me a turkey sandwich. No mayo. And don’t spend all my money in one place.”

Her eyes narrowed as she snatched the card from my hand. “You’re kidding?”

“You’re stalling,” I shot back, stepping away and closing the door before she could argue.

As she disappeared into the shop, I leaned against the car, letting the rain soak through my hair and cool the fire raging beneath my skin.

The kiss replayed in my mind, unbidden and relentless.The way her lips had felt against mine—soft, warm, and utterly consuming. The way her breath had hitched when I deepened it, her hands clutching at my jacket like she couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.

It wasn’t just the kiss itself that unsettled me. It was the way it made me feel.

Out of control.

I’d built my life on control—on discipline, precision, and the ability to outthink and outmaneuver anyone who dared to cross me. But with her...

With her, all of that went out the window.

Well, fuck.

I ran a hand through my hair, the rain slicking it back as I stared at the misty glow of the streetlights. She was dangerous, not because of who she was, but because of what she made me want.

And yet, the thought of walking away from her—of letting her slip through my fingers—was unbearable.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice her returning until she was standing in front of me, her arms crossed and her expression guarded.

“Here,” she said, holding out the sandwich wrapped in its crinkling paper.

I took it, but my attention was immediately drawn to her tense posture, the way her shoulders were hunched and her gaze darted toward the shop behind her.

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