Page 28 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“Marcello—”

“Saint,” I corrected her. “You call me Saint.”

“Saint.” She could hardly take a breath. “You’re already getting what you want. I agreed to marry you. Don’t humiliate me even further.”

I snickered with wicked amusement. “You think making you walk naked down this hall and taking a shower while I watch is to humiliate you?” I cupped her cheeks with both hands, my fingers wrapping down her jaw and over her ears. “It’s not.” I took a single step toward her, my leather shoes touching her naked toes. “It’s formypleasure,segreto.”

The whites of her eyes had turned red from crying, her tears already taking their toll on her body. There wasn’t a single trace left of the defiant woman who had boarded my plane, or the stubborn woman who found it impossible to obey an order. Slowly, I would turn her into putty, and I’d be the fucking mold—bending and shaping her to my will.

She closed her eyes. “Please,” she continued to plead.

“Shh,” I cooed, wiping at her lingering tears. “Now, take off your clothes, and do your motherfucking best to please your future husband.”

11

Mila

It was gone.Years I spent creating walls and building a foundation no one could destroy. To not rely on others, to be dependent on no one but myself had always been the motivation that strengthened me. No matter what kind of shit-storm life decided to throw at me, I refused to let it knock me down. I fought. Through every tear and every laugh—through every heartbreak and all those lonely nights, I fucking bared my teeth and fought for my own survival.

Years.

And all it took was a few days with this man, and those walls came tumbling down, shaking the foundation and cracks splitting it in half. Years of facing troubles head-on, and here I was cowering away because of one encounter with the devil.

The sliver of bravery I had up until this point was gone, and left in its place was a terrified girl who knew her life was no longer hers. All those nights of dreaming about one day finding my real family, hearing their heartbreaking story of how they had no choice but to give their baby away, disappeared along with my courage. For years, I had convinced myself their reasoning behind giving me up would be enough to redeem the loneliness and heartache their abandonment had caused me. But that wasn’t the case. They gave me up because of some fucking business transaction. And now, here I was, in the claws of the one man they had tried to hide me from. Marcello Saint Russo.

He held my face in his palms, those malevolent eyes deceptively peaceful. Like the eye of a hurricane. No wind. No rain. No storm. But surrounded by chaos and followed by mayhem. Destruction was the only thing it left behind, leaving nothing it touched unruined. That was Saint. A deadly hurricane, and there was not a chance in hell I’d survive the storm.

“Now,” he dragged his hands down my shoulders, his gaze following the movement as he slipped the tattered shirt down my arms, “I’ll help you with this. But the pants you need to take off on your own.” The torn fabric of my shirt fell around my feet, the soft ping of buttons hitting the floor sounded like gunshots going off right next to me.

Chills ran up and down my back, my skin cold and damp as he traced his fingertips across my naked flesh. Every instinct demanded I beg, that I plead for him to stop. To let me go. To let me return to my life of poverty and fucked-up fantasies of one day finding my family. I’d always wanted to find them—but not like this. Right now, I’d gladly go through my entire life without knowing who my parents were as long as it meant I never had to see this man again.

With an icy stare that made me shiver, he lifted a brow. “Are you going to defy me again? Make me do something much worse than forcing you to walk naked through my house?”

Jesus, no.

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.You can do this, Mila. You’ve survived abusive men before. You can survive him as well. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t lose yourself to the fear.

I wiped away my tears, forcing another deep rush of air down my lungs, steeling every bone in my body. Just because he had done a stellar job at scaring me did not mean I had to give in to the fear. There was no reason for me to hide, or to cower away. No reason for me to be afraid of what I needed to do in order to survive. If he wanted to break me, I’d make sure to give him a hard time doing it.

Red-hot humiliation made it almost impossible for me to act, to do what I was told. But I bit down on my tongue, tasting my own blood as I slipped my fingers in the side of my pants.

“Faster.” The tenor of his voice was hard, demanding. Cruel.

I bent forward, pulling the leggings down to my ankles, tearing them from my feet one leg at a time. As I straightened, I made the mistake of looking at him, seeing the way he stared at me with nothing but hunger in his eyes. I had no idea blue eyes could turn so dark, so undeniably wicked. For a moment, I stopped breathing, his stare too intense. Too fierce. His entire demeanor was that of a hunter, a man who prepared himself for the slaughter…and I was the lamb he planned on bleeding to death.

He shot me a ghost of a smile. “Panties, too.”

My bottom lip trembled, and I shot my gaze up to the roof, desperately trying to swallow my tears.I will not break. I will not break.

Saint started toward me. “Never make your husband wait. It’s considered disrespectful.”

“So is forcing a woman to do something she doesn’t want to do.” If I was a smarter woman, I would have kept my mouth shut. But I wasn’t. I was a stupid, dumb, foolish girl about to be devoured by a beast who thought he had some twisted claim on me because of the blood running through my veins.

His stare was too intense, and I couldn’t hold it any longer, diverting my eyes to the side. My heart raced at a thousand beats per minute, and I waited for him to retaliate, to reprimand and punish me. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained before me, unmoved, not saying a word, his overpowering presence intensified with his body so close to mine. Perspiration beaded on my chest, and the skin of my neck flushed as his scrutinizing gaze burned me, searing my flesh. The longer he stood there in silence, the more I hated it. The more I wanted him to curse and shout threats at me.

I braved a glance at him and saw the way his eyes drifted up and down my body like I was a piece of art he didn’t quite understand, or even liked. Did he?

A fleeting thought of self-doubt entered my mind accompanied by an unwelcome feeling of not being good enough. Not being pretty enough for a man like Marcello Saint Russo. The man exuded excellence and perfection—and he probably settled for nothing less when it came to the women he bedded. Only the best was good enough for him. And me? I was far from that, far from perfect, a mere blip on the map of his perfect little world. But that didn’t matter. My self-doubt didn’t fucking matter, because to him, a woman like me didn’t matter. I was just an insignificant number on his to-do list that would put him one step closer to wherever the fuck he wanted to be.

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