Page 42 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“Don’t.” It was the only word I could manage, just a sliver of a plea that carried no weight—like the confession of a sinner with corrupted intentions.

“Don’t what?” He gave a hard thrust against me the same time he pulled me closer, forcing my body to rock against his. “Don’t stop? Or don’t make you come?”

I was there. I was right there standing at the edge, my body already swaying forward, ready to fall. My head was screaming for him to not let me tip over, to not make me come. Yet my body was demanding he didn’t stop. It was insane. Maybe I was the crazy one. The lunatic who fell for temptation at the devil’s hands. Weak and powerless against him.

My body was a mere inch away from the release it craved, and I rocked my hips against him. “I hate you.”

“I know. But I’m still going to fuck you.”

Rapid breaths left my lungs, and I was one thrust, one gentle touch away from the release that would finally snap the rubber band around my body in two. But then he moved and pulled away from me, leaving me at the edge, breathless and needy.

“Not today, though. But soon.”

I opened my eyes, frustration bubbling at the surface while every inch of my body ached. The look on his face showed victory and attainment, crystal eyes burning with malicious intent. The bastard played me. He fucking played me, and I didn’t do shit to stop him.

Saint adjusted himself and straightened. “We leave in an hour. Be ready.”

Dumbfounded and flustered, I watched as he walked out, leaving me behind to bask in my own humiliation.

Tears stung my eyes, and my bottom lip trembled with shame. Disgrace cloaked me, embarrassment sucking me in as I realized how easily he could undo me—tear me at the seams and rip me apart.

I wiped at my eyes and slipped off the table. My dress was torn at the side, pieces of thread dangling against my skin. If this was me after a few days with Saint, what state would I be in after six months? What would be left of me once he was done, once he got what he wanted and had no use for me anymore?

Nothing.

* * *

Elena was lessthan pleased about the torn dress. But she didn’t ask questions, and that was good since I wasn’t sure I’d be able to answer them without bursting into tears. It was enough that Saint had humiliated me the way he did. I didn’t need to add insult to injury by crying over it like a little girl who just witnessed her doll’s head get torn off.

While Elena chatted away as if nothing about this entire situation was fucked up, I blankly stared out the heavily tinted window of the limousine.

The metallic gray sunhat I wore had an even wider brim than the one I had on when they snuck me out of the posh New York hotel. It was almost impossible to look straight ahead without straining your neck.

I braved a glance at Saint, who sat next to me, typing on his phone. He had been ignoring me ever since our little encounter in the dining room, not even looking up when Elena and I met them in the garage of the estate. And I was too troubled by the hurricane of emotions torpedoing through me to even care about the entire fleet of sportscars, limos, SUVs, and motorcycles lined up throughout an underground parking area bigger than fucking Walmart.

I anxiously tugged at the embroidered seam of the gray dress I wore. I felt like an overdressed tart attending church in her designer dress and her sin-stained soul.

“Now, remember,” Saint’s voice filled the empty space between us, “keep your sunglasses on at all times. And try to keep your head down without making it seem like you’re hiding.”

I frowned. “How on Earth do I do that?”

Only then did he look up from his phone and at me. “By leaning into your man and keeping your face close to his chest. That way you’ll be shielding your face and showing affection to your husband-to-be. Two birds with one stone.”

I scoffed. “Aim that metaphorical stone at my head, and we can make it three birds.”

Saint refused to entertain my sarcastic remark and returned to whatever he was busy with on his phone. Probably arranging a massacre and securing his second wife while he planned to take over the fucking world.

One would think since it was my first time in Italy, I’d be eating up the scenery as we drove through the streets. But I hardly noticed anything. The hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach sucked all the pretty out of the world around me. My thoughts were a mess, and my life had somehow slipped from my grasp right into the devil’s hands. But I just closed my eyes and saw that little red-haired girl’s face and so many others, imagining the day I’d be able to help them. To keep them from getting hurt. The way I got hurt.

Absentmindedly, I reached up and traced a finger against the scar behind my ear. It was a tiny mark, a small piece of marred skin that was hidden to those who didn’t know about it. It served as a reminder of what I had survived—an abusive foster father who found it amusing to see my flesh sizzle and burn under the coal of his cigarette.

“You do that a lot?”

I looked at Saint, who watched me with curious eyes.

“You pretend to tuck your hair behind your ear when in fact you’re touching that little scar.”

“How do you—”

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