Page 29 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

There was the distinct sound of a flick of a blade, and I felt cold steel lick the skin of my thigh. I closed my eyes, craning my neck back as I lifted my face to the ceiling, my heart desperately trying to claw up my throat.

With a twist of his wrist, I gasped as my panties slipped down my legs to join the rest of my clothes around my feet.

A tear fell down the side of my face, my gaze still focused on the coffered ceiling. Made of sunken panels accented by molding, it was like a work of art, and I tried my best to concentrate on the waffle-like pattern rather than the touch of his hands on my naked skin.

He dragged a finger leisurely from my hip around the front of my thigh. My skin erupted in chills, his touch both teasing and tormenting me.

Warm breath skidded across my neck. “Oh, Mila. What is this?” Cruel fingers tugged at the hair between my legs to a point of pain. I yelped, and my knees weakened, stumbling over my own two feet, and I reached up to grab his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall, our gazes locked. For a second, a mere moment, something other than fear twisted its way into my core—a heat that spread up my insides, all the way to my burning cheeks.

Saint inched closer, our lips no more than a breath apart. I couldn’t move, the storm in his eyes holding me captive. It was raging, grueling, and whatever darkness lurked in him was desperate to get out and smother me in its sea of black.

“This, Mila,” he tugged at the hair between my legs, “this has to go.”

Ice smothered the temporary heat that evaporated as quickly as it appeared. “Why?” I swallowed.

“We’re getting married.” His reply was nothing short of sarcasm with a hint of mocking surprise, as if I had just asked the world’s dumbest question.

I bit my lip, doubting if I was brave enough to ask the question that was now burning like white-hot coals on the tip of my tongue. “You…we…” I stuttered, “you just need my signature on a marriage certificate. Nothing more. There’s no need to—”

He grabbed the back of my neck, pinching his fingers into my spine. “I need to,” he spat out with clenched teeth. “And I fucking plan to. Now. Walk.”

With a shove, he let go. My legs were weak, and I wasn’t sure how long it would be able to hold me up. Feeling fear to a point where your body weight felt like a burden to your own legs was excruciating.

“Turn around and walk down that hall. I won’t ask again.” The sharp edge of his warning sliced through my skin and gnawed at my bones.

A tear slipped from my cheek, and I watched as it lapped onto my panties, the torn fabric soaking it up. I held my breath while turning my back to him, shudders causing me to wrap my arms around my shoulders. One step at a time, I forced myself to move forward, my nakedness weighing like a cross on my back. I’d been naked in front of guys before, but I’d never felt uncomfortable in my own skin. All I wanted to do was cover myself with the first thing I could get my hands on. With every step, I felt his gaze burn into my flesh, scrutinizing every curve, every inch of skin, probably finding a hundred flaws that would displease a man like him. I was no runway model, a fact I was now painfully aware of.

The marble beneath my feet was smooth, yet it felt like I was walking on thorns, on my way to be slaughtered. Every tear, every breath hurt. Every bone in my body hurt all because of the fear this man so expertly evoked.

My feet touched the floor of the hall, and I heard his heavy footsteps behind me. They echoed with demand and dominion, making it impossible to ignore. I walked as close to the wall as possible in case I needed the support, my arm already reaching toward it just in case. Every step was followed by a tear, a silent whimper that tore through my soul, breaking me little by little. The humiliation alone caused me more pain than I ever had to endure before. Naked, helpless, and completely at a man’s mercy was even more cruel than spending days locked in a closet because your foster dad couldn’t stand the sight of your face.

“Pick up the pace, Mila.” His voice was as sharp and threatening like the blade of a knife. “Look up and square those shoulders. A Russo wife faces the world and never walks around with her eyes downcast.”

Vertigo seized control, the world around me rocking like a sinking ship, and I tripped over my own feet. A cry ripped from my throat as I stumbled forward hands first into the wall. “Please—”

His hands wrapped around my waist from behind, and I couldn’t stop my weak body from leaning into him. “A Russo wife also never begs, not unless she’s begging her husband to use her,” he rasped against my ear. He pulled me from the wall and steadied me on my feet. “Now, get hold of yourself and move.”

It took me a long minute to collect myself.A Russo wife. Two days ago, I was nothing but an orphan stray trying to survive the streets of New York. And now I was the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Italy, and about to be aRusso wife.

But he was right. I had to pull my shit together, get a grip. My head was taking me in circles, and the fear of not knowing what would become of me was weakening me. In the end, it wouldn’t be Saint that broke me, but rather the fear he so easily provoked.

My feet felt unsteady, but I stared at the bedroom door that was only a few feet away. The sooner I got there, and the sooner I did what he wanted, the sooner he could be done with me and just leave me the hell alone so I could cry, scream, vomit, and curse in goddamn peace. Alone.

That few feet of distance between me and the bedroom door seemed like it never closed. Yet the second I stepped past the threshold, I breathed out in relief and scurried for the sheet that draped the bed. But Saint was right beside me as my fingers touched the silk sheet.

“Do not test me. You’ll regret it.”

He didn’t touch me. He didn’t have to. The weight of his warning was heavy in the tenor of his voice, and I had no choice but to obey. It was terrifying, the power he had over me. I didn’t think it was possible for a man to intimidate me the way he did.

“Shower’s through there.” He pointed at one of the closed doors, and I hesitated before opening it, yet forced myself to keep my chin up.

Black and white checkered tiles covered the floor of the bathroom, the walls a subtle shade of white. But what took my breath away was the glass wall behind the opulent free-standing bathtub, covered on the outside with thick vines, making it impossible to see through. It was stunning, the dark green plant shaping its way up the window, covering it completely as if trying to shield it. Protect it.

I felt Saint behind me while I took in every corner of the luxury bathroom. He didn’t rush me, didn’t scold me, as if he knew I would need a moment to admire it. White towels rested on gold rails, the taps matching the color. Gold lampshades covered the lights and gave the modern bathroom a touch of vintage style, the perfect balance between old and new. I had never seen a bathroom so big, so exquisite, before. It was just my luck that the first time I stepped into a bathroom like this I had to be kidnapped and forced to marry some sadistic, power-hungry maniac.

I noticed the open shower to my left, and my heart slammed to the soles of my feet. There were no doors, or shower curtains. Just a shower with two partial glass walls, and nothing but open space.

In a last attempt to have him leave a little bit of my dignity intact, I turned to face him. “I’ll clean up. You don’t have to stay and watch.”

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