Page 35 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

I remained on the bed as Elena pranced around the room in her beige high heels and matching knee-length dress. Her perfect blonde hair was neatly straightened, the tips brushing against her shoulders. I wondered how old she was since she didn’t look a day older than thirty-eight, yet Saint called her Aunt Elena. Either she was very young when he was born, like—I dunno—ten. Or Elena’s life of luxury had scraped a few years off her appearance.

Elena placed a pair of nude high-heeled pumps on the bed next to the pale pink dress she had chosen the night before, then noticed the untouched dome of food. “You didn’t eat?”

“Yeah. There’s something about seeing a man shot right next to me, and then being kidnapped, only to learn I’ll be marrying a murderer against my will that kind of suppresses one’s appetite.” I gave her a fake smile, and she returned it with a raised brow.

She held the dress out to me. “Get dressed. Marcello expects you to join him for breakfast.”

I took the dress from her. “Why do you call him Marcello, but everyone else has to call him Saint?”

“He prefers Saint. But I’ve known him since he was a baby, so I guess it’s a family perk to have the right to call him by his first name.”

I nodded then frowned at her. “Do you mind?”

She scowled at me in question.

“I want to get dressed. Turn around, please.”

“Oh, my God, you’re too cute.” The click of her high heels disappeared as she walked from the marbled floor and over the carpet and grabbed something from the top cabinet, tossing it on the bed.

I gaped. “Is that a—”

“Thong,” she replied dryly. “Yes. With a dress like that, you can’t wear anything else. We don’t want those embarrassing panty lines.”

I pulled the dress over my head. “Yeah, panty lines are my biggest concern right now.”

“You know, Mila,” she paused and placed her hands on her hips, “this is happening. This is really happening. Having a snotty attitude and acting like a victim all the time won’t change anything or make it better. In fact, you’ll only piss Marcello off, which in turn could make this entire situation ten times worse.”

“How can this get any worse?”

Elena took a step closer. “Much. Worse.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. And the softness that glowed in her eyes proved it was a friendly one—a friendly warning for me to not overstep. To not push myself to the edge of a cliff I wouldn’t be able to get back from.

Elena placed her hands on my shoulders. “Just give him what he wants,” her voice softened, “and I can assure you everything will be okay.”

“Will he hurt me?” I swallowed and pressed my lips together.

Elena’s gaze dropped from mine, and she brushed her hands down the overlay of my dress sleeves. “Men like Marcello have a way of…” She paused as if trying to find better words. “They have a way of making us go against our better judgement. But in the end, everything is a choice.”

“He’s not giving me a choice.” Tears started to burn my eyes.

“Oh, but he has. He did give you a choice, and you chose to marry him.”

“What he gave me was an ultimatum,” I snarled.

Elena winked at me. “An ultimatum is just a fancy word for a choice between two evils, my dear.” With her hands on my wrists, she leaned back and studied me from top to bottom. “Hmmm.”

“What?” I frowned.

“I initially thought Elie Saab, maybe Vera Wang. But now I’m thinking one of Oscar de la Renta’s designs will work perfectly.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her gaze cut to mine. “Your wedding dress, of course.”

Shocked, I snatched my wrists from her hold and took a step back. “A wedding dress?”

“Yes. That’s usually what brides wear at a wedding.”

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