Page 82 of Vicious Saint
“It’s a shame you’re so beautiful,” he says in a low, husky voice, forming a pit somewhere deep in my stomach.
Not because the words are false, but because of how real his disappointment sounds.
As if I’m something valuable he doesn’t want to lose. Or break. Which is absurd given he’s the one dead set on keeping me at arm’s length. But, then again, contradicting himselfisSaint’s modus operandi.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I respond with, “Beauty is not something to be ashamed of.”
Saint’s lips find my ear, and it’s at this moment I’m reminded that his, and my, entire family are watching us.
Stepsiblings. Not lightning and glass.
Saint doesn’t seem to give a flying rat’s pooper when he says, “It is when you’re wasting all of it on him.”
My mouth open and closes, wanting to ask what the fuck he’s talking about, but I don’t get the chance because he releases me abruptly, taking off to exit the dance floor.
I whirl around, finding Saint pass Stevenson without even a glance as he waves at me, holding a bouquet of red roses, of course.
The days following the engagement announcement, I took it upon myself to cut things off with Stevenson, not wanting to risk him getting caught up in the crossfires again.
It was agreed we’d just be friends, but it seems he’s having a harder time letting go of the ways of the past.
So, we remain friends, and I take his kindness in stride, always making sure to be clear on my intentions. Expectations. Which no longer include kissing or sex.
Seems like Letterman’s been too busy between legs to realize such things, and I see no reason to go out of my way to correct him.
He’s not my father. Or brother.
Despite what the law says.
I throw my head back, fighting the urge to ugly cry and ruin my makeup.
Insert fuck-my-life emoji.
“You are such a vision.” Stevenson smiles when I approach him, then plants a kiss on my cheek before handing me the flowers.
“Thank you so much.” I hold up the bouquet and smell it, ashamed to admit I hate roses.
It’s the thought that counts, though.
“Eh, it’s nothing. I just grabbed them on the way here. That’s why I’m a bit late.”
I humor him, pretending I don’t know the real reason he wanted to stroll in after everyone else. He’s here, though. For me. Which says a lot about his loyalty.
The truth in this makes me smile, but it dies quickly with the sound of a familiar nauseating mousy voice.
“Party’s here, bitches!” Annalie’s heels click against the marble floor as she makes her way over. “And XXL bitches.” Her lip curls at me when she passes.
Who doesn’t love two scuffles in one night?
Annalie doesn’t make it four steps past me before I hurl the bouquet at the back of her head.
She freezes and gasps, still appearing surprised every time I clap back at one of her fat girl digs.
My fingers tingle with excitement to punch things when she turns to face me.
“Did you just throw your supermarket flowers at me?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Damn fuckin’ right I did.”
