Page 30 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

Without saying a word, he mere nodded toward the shower, and I knew he was hellbent on humiliating me as much as possible. It was more proof of how fucking twisted he really was. He enjoyed every second of this, every moment. It was nothing but a game to him. All he needed was for me to marry him, and this little charade of his, making me walk naked and forcing me to take a shower while he watched, was all for his own amusement. It was nothing more than his entertainment for the evening, and it angered me, lighting newfound determination inside me.

I squared my shoulders, scraped together every ounce of courage I had, and sauntered to the shower. It was unnerving to have my back turned to him, knowing he was busy watching me, his filthy eyes glued to my naked body. I practically felt his gaze slither across my skin like the sly snake he was.

As I turned the faucet, warm water blasted from the shower, and I stepped in. The floor tiles felt rough underneath my feet, and the running water smooth on my skin. After what I’d been through, not even his snake eyes could ruin how good it felt to take a shower.

I closed my eyes and stepped under the water, getting my face and hair wet, drops slipping through my lips and coating my tongue. After wiping the water from my eyes, I grabbed the sponge and lathered it with vanilla scented soap. If it was a show he wanted, that was what I planned on giving him.

Water cascaded down my back as I turned to face him. There was no surprise when I saw him standing in the middle of the bathroom, hands in his pants pockets, eyes etched on me like I was a dish about to be served to the starving beast.

I ignored the surge of adrenaline and the way my skin tingled when our eyes met and kept my expression stone. The sweet scent of vanilla surrounded me as I brushed the sponge across the skin of my chest, easing it from side to side, over my shoulders and down my neck. White scented bubbles popped on my skin, and the thick lather of soap felt like silk. Water dribbled down my face, my wet hair clinging to my shoulders as I continued to wash. If only it was possible to wash his filthy stare off my body.

Saint didn’t move, and I didn’t break eye contact. The atmosphere grew thick, palpable, the only sound that of the water cracking on the shower floor. The sponge left a rich foam across my stomach, a trail of bubbles slipping down my thigh. His gaze didn’t falter once, keeping it fixed on mine, as if he had no interest in my body, but rather the expression on my face—the look in my eyes. It made sense. If I broke, if I lost the fight, my eyes would be the first place he’d see it happen. Eyes were windows to the soul, a reflection of the peace or chaos on the inside. That was what he wanted to see. That was his entertainment, and not the simple fact that he was watching a naked woman shower.

Slowly but with purpose, I slipped the sponge down until it reached between my legs, easing it in circles on the inside of my thighs. Not even then did he break eye contact, but I could see the color of his eyes turn a shade of gray as it darkened. I wiped some water from my face and down my hair. Warm steam enveloped me and spread throughout the bathroom, reaching as far as where Saint stood. He bit his bottom lip, his jaw ticking as it clenched, the tension in the room about to snap like a rubber band. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to hold his stare without looking away. It was too intense and unsettling how every second slipped into eternity, time no longer making sense.

Finally, Saint glanced to the side and pulled a hand from his pants pocket, rubbing his chin. He scoffed, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. With a sideway glare in my direction, Saint’s expression showed no trace of being entertained. “Don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying long.” His voice was low and loud enough to hear over the noise of the shower. And as I watched him walk out of the bathroom, I stilled, afraid to move. I wasn’t sure what this meant. Did I just win this round? Or did I just make things much worse for myself?

12

Saint

I didn’t havetime for this. I thought I did, thought I could play with her a little, have some fun while I put all the chess pieces in place, of which Mila was the queen. The one whose place was at my side. The one who could make all the moves, forcing the ones trying to corner me to change their strategy if they still planned on winning. Ultimately, Mila, along with a few other pawns, would have my enemies right where I wanted them—where I could strike and force them all into checkmate.

Following her naked ass down the hall, seeing the way she struggled to stay in control of her emotions as she fought to stay strong against the humiliation, was enticing as fuck. I loved watching her squirm. It fucking thrilled me and made me think of all the things I could do to her—to my future wife.

This wasn’t part of the plan, though, having fun with the Torres girl. But it was too tempting to pass up. Watching her shower, her naturally tanned skin shimmering and glistening with water and foam had my dick throbbing. Nowthatwas definitely not part of the plan—the Torres girl giving me a motherfucking hard-on.

Elena waited for me in my study when I walked in. “Aunt Elena.”

“You told her?”

“I did.”

“Everything?” She sat down on the couch and placed her glass of red wine next to the deck of tarot cards.

I frowned. “Are you serious with those?”

“Of course, I am.” She picked them up. “Did you tell her everything, Marcello?”

“I told her what she needed to know.” I poured myself a glass of bourbon before taking a seat across from her, and her disapproving glare settled on me.

I sighed. “Stop worrying, Aunt Elena.”

Her long blonde hair hung over her left shoulder. She wasn’t a natural blonde, the roots of her hair showing its true color. Chestnut, the same color hair my mother had. The resemblance between them was uncanny, and most days it was hard to look at Elena and not think of my mother.

“I’ll always worry, Marcello. This plan is dangerous. If the wrong people discover we have a Torres girl before—”

“They won’t,” I interrupted, mid-sentence.

Elena crossed her legs, the hem of her red dress just above her knees. “What worries me is that we don’t know who sent the letter informing us of the Torres girl’s existence. Without knowing who it is, we can’t establish their motive for doing it.”

“Maybe they didn’t have a motive other than doing us a favor.”

Elena scoffed. “Come, now, Marcello. We both know you don’t believe that.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I know.” Just like her, that anonymous letter was fucking with my head. With no return address or dated stamp, there was no way of figuring out who sent the letter that set this entire plan into motion. The security cameras showed a boy slipping the letter through the main gate. But after finding the boy, all he could tell us was that he got the letter from another boy with an instruction to deliver it here to us. He didn’t know the other boy, so there was no way of tracking it farther back.

Elena picked up the tarot cards and started shuffling. “The girl is strong. She won’t be easily manipulated.”

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