Page 17 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“I told you, you’ll get your answers when you’re ready.”

Frustration got the better of me, and I pulled my hand through my hair. “For God’s sake, just tell me. Tell me why I’m here, what you want with me, and what you plan on doing to me.” My voice grew louder with every syllable, James and Elena both turning in our direction.

The heat on my cheeks made me realize I had to calm down. I had to keep control. It was the only thing he couldn’t take from me. Control. At least for now, anyway.

“Please, Saint,” I murmured, closing my eyes and hanging my head down. “What. Do you want. With me?”

Silence confined us both to the corner of the plane. It was heavy. Deafening. And it was slowly suffocating me. I needed answers. I needed to know because not knowing was far worse.

The recently unemployed stewardess came back with a new plate in hand, her presence merely adding to the discomfort of the moment. Now that I knew Saint had sex with her in the bathroom multiple times, I looked at her in a different light. Her blonde hair seemed more fake than it did half an hour ago, her striking blue eyes a shade only contact lenses could give. Why did I suddenly not like her? The thought of Saint firing her didn’t upset me quite as much as it had anymore.

The stewardess didn’t even look at Saint or me, her bottom lip trembling like she was about to burst into tears at any second. I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but Elena stepped up behind her with two glasses of champagne.

“Anyone for a glass of champagne?”

Saint grinned. “I’m sure Mila would love a glass.”

Air slipped through my teeth. “Champagne is a celebratory drink.”

“Indeed.” Saint took the glasses from her and held one out to me. “We have much to celebrate.”

I frowned in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Drink up. It’s just a glass of champagne. The best in the world, I might add.”

I chewed my lip, gazing at the perceived hazard which was Saint, sitting across from me in his expensive clothes, Rolex wristwatch, and poisonous grin.

“One glass, Mila,” Elena urged with a warm smile. “It’s delicious. It will compliment your meal.”

Reluctantly, I reached for the glass in Saint’s hand, and my fingers brushed against his. A gentle touch, a subtle spark, and I sucked in a breath, our eyes meeting. There was a wicked glint in the color of his irises, an unspoken darkness threatening to swallow me whole.

Without saying a word, I took the glass from him, and he tipped his toward me. “To our time together, Mila.”

I didn’t respond or humor him by pretending to toast back. I might have been from the wrong side of the tracks, but I knew champagne was meant to be savored. Meant to be sipped. But I drank it all in one go—a show of defiance. I had to keep my wits about me and figure out how I was going to get away from him. Until then, I had to do my best not to let this man get under my skin.

Swallowing the last drop of champagne, I handed the glass back to Elena, glowering in Saint’s direction. He pulled his lips in a straight line. Those motherfucking textbook perfect lips, grinning like the Cheshire cat who had a belly full of secrets.

I was one of those secrets. He told me so. The question was, why?

9

Mila

I wasno stranger to waking up to a skull-pounding hangover and a tongue that felt like it had been licking shards of glass. But this was different. My mind was hazy, disorientated, and those first few moments after waking, I remembered nothing. Everything was blank, my thoughts scattering.

I clutched fabric as I balled my fists and pushed myself up, my head as heavy as a goddamn wrecking ball. If it wasn’t attached to my body, it would have been rolling on the floor.

I placed a hand on my head, my face curtained with the wild mess of hair. “Jesus Christ.”

“You really have a foul mouth, Mila.”

“Jesus!” I yanked at the sheet and saw Saint sitting on an armchair, staring at me with his hands clutched in front of his face. Yup, everything was coming back to me now.

The hotel. The penthouse suite. The man with the perfect lips. Brad. The private jet.

Fuck.

“Where are we?”

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