Page 133 of Vicious Saint
The stellar poker face I’m used to must’ve gotten left in Cyprus, because everything about Saint’s statement is as unconvincing as Riggs when he swears he’s not a virgin.
Because let’s face it…guys, especially arrogant ones like Saint, don’t go out of their way to help girls they hate simply because their daddy says so.
No.
They have ulterior motives.
And given the fact, after all of Saint’s threats, I’m still yet to succumb to his rage…I’d say his motives toward me run more on restraint than retaliation.
Which can only mean one thing.
Archer was right when he said there’s more to Saint than meets the eye, but the rule applies to more than his violent tendencies.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t give a shit when clearly you do.”
“Now who’s delusional? Hm?” He takes the three steps between us to clap my arm. Then, gesturing his chin to the ensuite bathroom, he says, “I’m gonna shower. Care to join?”
I conjure up my best disgusted face. “Hard pass.”
“Your loss.” Saint shrugs, heading to the dresser, pulling what looks to be a new iPhone, out of a box and onto the charger.
Deciding it’s best to not feed my exhaustion or headache, I go about my business and kick off my Chucks, then stand and remove my hoodie.
The cold air from the vent above me feels like magic, especially after playing pack mule up eight flights of stairs.
The pampering gets cut short when Saint’s throat clears behind me.
Just like the closet during orientation…once again I find myself in a room with this guy—vulnerable in every way—and it’s not as uncomfortable or foreign as it should be.
“Why doyoudo that?” Saint returns my previous question.
I blink at him over my shoulder. “Do what?”
“Keep trusting me not to hurt you.”
Facing him, I toss the hoodie on his bed.
He shoots a glare at it, but doesn’t remark, which is why deep down, beneath all the hate, back and forth, and one-ups, I truly mean what I’m about to say.
“I told you…there’s not many people in the world who could stop you from hurting me. So if you’re not hurting me, it’s because you’re choosing not to.”
Unlike last night, sliding into Saint’s bed feels a lot less satisfying, regardless of the ridiculously soft fabric of his sheets and comforter.
It feels wrong but necessary in order to survive the next couple days without adding a stiff neck to my headache. Besides, he’s the one who forced me to come back to this pristine little prison, so it’s only fair his ass takes one for the team until I’m out of here.
Turning onto my side, I open the top drawer of Saint’s nightstand, feeling around for the bottle of Motrin I found hidden in the back last night.
I’m swallowing two tablets dry when I hear the squeak of the shower water turn off.
“Shit.” I throw the bottle back in the drawer and slide it closed. Then, in a frantic attempt to get comfortable, cover myself with the blanket and roll onto my side.
The scent of cotton and lavender settles my racing heart, marking my decision to shelf the sass until tomorrow.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Saint’s voice is gravel as he appears with one towel around his neck, and another folded around his hips.
