Page 60 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

I pulled a palm down my face and straightened with renewed resolve. “I don’t have time for this. Whatever is going on inside that head of yours, or whatever the fuck it is your cards are showing you, let me remind you that Mila is nothing but a means to an end.”

“For now.”

“Don’t,” I warned, but Elena continued to stare at me with beaming eyes, as if she carried all the wisdom in the world.

“Great wars were fought in the past, wars that started because of a woman. In the end, there was always one question that remained.” She placed her hands in her lap, fingers weaved together. “Was she worth it?”

I sucked air through my teeth, her message received loud and clear. But I refused to let it rattle me, make me lose sight of what I had set out to accomplish ever since the day I walked out of my father’s mansion. “I made a vow, a promise I had started this war over. And as God is my witness, I will win this war, andshewill be worth every drop of blood that coats my hands. And Mila,” I cocked my head, steeled my expression, “she is nothing but the weapon I’ll use to slit the throat of my enemy.”

Rage burned my tongue and possessed my bones as I turned and stomped off. If I didn’t walk away now, Aunt Elena would be at the receiving end of it—something she didn’t deserve even though she pressed all the wrong buttons throughout the span of ten minutes. But I knew her, I knew her heart. She was in this for the same reasons I was, but it seemed that Mila was getting under her skin. In a way, I wondered if she didn’t see the daughter she never had whenever she looked at Mila. I could sympathize with that. No woman should carry the burden of not being able to fulfill her biological, God-given gift of producing a child.

It calmed me slightly, to try to think of the source of Elena’s motivations.

My footsteps resounded down the hall. The thought of Mila waiting for me, bound and still aching, thrilled me. Yet I couldn’t stop the sliver of remorse that tried to force its way into my chest. I lost myself with her. Lost control and thought only of my depraved desires, not giving a fuck that she wasn’t like any of the other women I had been with. In fact, I liked it. I liked the idea of her being innocent, uncorrupted, mine to pervert and taint.

Walking into my room, I was met with the beautiful sight of her, bound and aching, exactly the way I left her—legs spread and dress bunched up around her waist.

Her head jerked up, and she glanced halfway over her shoulder at me. “You here to torture me some more?”

I grinned. “So, you admit me not fucking you is torture?”

“I’d say fuck you, but I’m not exactly in the mood for irony.”

I stalked closer, the red lashes on her skin raised and flushed across her ass. A pang of remorse struck my chest, an unwelcome feeling that made me wish I had brought the bottle of bourbon with me.

It wasn’t like me to stare at marks on a woman’s body made by my hand or my whip and be assaulted by a guilty conscience. It was unnerving. Regret wasn’t something I felt—ever, and for good reason. Remorse was nothing but a thorn that stemmed from the root of a weakness, which, once it started to grow, would never stop—not until it had burrowed a thousand spikes under your skin.

Nevertheless, my chest felt heavy with unease, and I grabbed a wet towel along with some aloe vera and sat in front of her, reaching for her face.

She jerked away. “What are you doing?”

“Lay still.”

Wary eyes stared at me, bloodshot and red from crying, her cheeks blotched with tear stains. Poetic beauty, that was what it was—the tears of a strong woman. Even after everything, her eyes still hadn’t lost their radiance. The color of her irises was as striking as the first leaves of spring, as strong as the exotic allure of the Amazon. I didn’t think anything in the world could ruin it, make them lose their luster. Not even me.

She watched me the entire time as I wiped the sticky residue of my release from her cheek. To prove I was a sick motherfucker, my dick hardened from the thought of my cum on her face, yet the unrelenting stab in my chest remained. I hated it, and much preferred the darkness of feeling nothing.

I dabbed the towel across her mouth, her lips slightly parted. Only then did I see the tiny bit of dried blood in the corner of her mouth, and I stilled as a chill slithered down my spine.

Turn it off.

Ignore it.

Don’t. Feel. Anything.

Without speaking a word, I got up to tend to the scorched skin on her ass and rubbed a decent amount of salve onto the bruised flesh. She winced, and her body tensed, the chains complaining around her ankles. The decent thing to do was probably to untie her, but I couldn’t get myself to do it. I loved seeing her like this—the blood on her lip forgotten thanks to the erotic sight of her. And while I carefully rubbed her ass, watched the ointment seep into her marred skin, I felt the urge to add more crimson lines to the canvas of imperfect perfection. With every stroke of my hands, her breathing became more labored, her hips flexing with a subtle movement.

I smiled. “I see your body still wants what I’ve denied you.”

“I might be nothing but a signature on a sham marriage certificate to you, but I’m still human.”

The sneer in her voice amused me. Not even my whip or refusal to let her come could stop her from being stubborn. It made me wonder if I should reward her resilience instead of punishing her defiance.

I wiped my hands and grabbed a bottle from my bedside table drawer.

“What is that?” Mila squirmed on the bed, tugging at the belt that held her wrists behind her back.

“Massage oil. I must admit,” I went to stand at the end of the bed as I poured a generous amount of oil into my palms, her glistening cunt on full display, “a part of me feels bad for leaving you like this.”

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