Page 24 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“Your parents did a very good job hiding you. By putting you in the system rather than spending their money on finding you some wealthy American family, they made sure there was absolutely nothing that could trace Mila Black back to them. They had everyone fooled for years.”

My chest closed, every breath strained as I cradled my head in my hands. “The world’s best kept secret,” I mumbled to myself, repeating the words he said to me in the car. “Who is he?” I looked up. “Who is the Russo son I was supposed to marry?”

Saint cocked his head, the darkness that surrounded him now a volcanic obsidian. “Me.”

My heart came to a screeching halt, and I forgot how to breathe, my body numb and mind an empty void of black. The blood in my veins ran cold, ice spreading down my spine, cutting through my gut.

Saint stood straight, and he looked even more powerful, more ruthless than he had two seconds ago. He fastened the buttons of his suit jacket. “My name is Marcello Saint Russo. And you, dear Mila, are my future wife.”

10

Saint

The moment was even betterthan I expected. I’d had her for over twenty-four hours, and there were so many times I burned to drop this bomb on her. Especially when I had my hand inside her dress, feeling how her breast fit perfectly in my palm, touching what would soon be mine. The longer I had her so close, the more I found myself wanting her. And the more she fought me with every act of defiance, I imagined how it would feel to finally have her on her knees begging me to give her what she had been denying herself the entire time.

Those pretty forest green eyes of hers widened, the shock on her face a deadly pale. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t send a thrill down my spine, crashing against the head of my cock, which was already throbbing like a motherfucker. Just the sight of her fear, her uncertainty, was enough to send me into a frenzy of chains, whips, and screams of pleasure.

Those wild curls moved as she shook her head. “I’m not marrying you.”

Amused, I cocked a brow. “You don’t have a choice.”

“You can’t make me,” she bit out, her glare like poisoned arrows, aimed straight at my black heart.

“Why do you think you’re here, Mila? Why do you think I went through all this trouble to find you?”

“Why did you?” Those pretty greens narrowed. “What is it that you really want, Saint?”

I tightened my arms in front of my chest, feeling the fabric of my collar scratch the back of my neck. “What makes you think I want anything other than the bride that is owed to me?”

She got up, her demeanor every bit as challenging as the bold gleam in her eyes. “I know men like you. You don’t do anything you don’t want to do, and you can’t stand there and tell me a man like you actually wants to be married to a woman like me.”

I frowned. “A woman like you?”

“Look at me.” She waved her hands in front of her face. “I’m not your type, and you know it.”

Intrigued, I settled back. “And what exactly do you think is my type?”

It was easy to see her courage had momentarily left her, her pale cheeks gaining a sudden rush of pink. “Because. You’re you, and I’m…” She glanced down at her body. “I’m me.”

I chose not to respond. It was entertaining to see her squirm, watch how her little mind went into overdrive, desperate to piece the puzzle together.

She looked back at me. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“Isn’t there always?” I walked over to the side table and poured bourbon in two crystal glasses and held one out to her. At first, she shook her head, but I gave her a knowing look, and she reluctantly took the glass from my hand. If eyes were truly the windows to one’s soul, hers was fucking terrified.

“Your real father died a little more than a year ago.”

For a fleeting second, hurt covered every contour of her flawless face. Of course, she wouldn’t feel grief. She didn’t know the man. But his death also meant a part of history, of her life, died with him—a part she would never uncover, no matter what happened from here on out.

I took a sip from the smooth, rich bourbon, savoring it on my tongue for a few seconds. “A few months before your father died, he was forced to sell some of his company’s shares.”

“Why?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is I was the one who bought those shares. Thirty-nine percent of it, to be exact.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this, and what this has to do with us getting married.”

I placed my glass down on the table before crossing my arms, knowing we were nearing the part where this conversation could go either way. “Your brother—”

---