Page 68 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“You’re not okay.”

“I am.” I swallowed hard, trying my best to put on a brave face.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Jesus, Saint.” I rubbed my forehead. “What do you want from me? You’ve been mind-fucking me—”

“Watch your mouth when you talk to me.”

“Just stop, would you?” I closed my eyes. “Stop pretending like you give a damn how I talk, how I act, what I do.” I leaned my head back against the seat. “And most of all, stop acting like you care whether I’m okay. You don’t give a shit. You never have. You don’t have to go around ignoring me all the time to prove that.”

Leather creaked, and the seat moved under his weight as he slipped in next to me.

I locked eyes with him, the blue of his eyes lighter than I had ever seen them before. No words were spoken, and it was as if time had stopped. As if the whole world around us had disappeared. His lips twitched, and I waited for him to speak. But he didn’t. He just stared at me like I was a maze he needed to find his way through.

He reached out and slid a finger down the side of my neck, a simple touch that caused me to tremble. As quick as the strike of lightning, he grabbed me behind my neck and pulled me to him, slamming his lips against mine. Nothing about his kiss was gentle or romantic, but rather dominant and desperate. His tongue demanded, and I offered willingly by kissing him back with equal vigor. I wanted to drown in him. I wanted him to pull me under, take my every breath and make it his.

Strong fingers bit into the skin of my neck as his lips claimed mine harder, but I welcomed his fierce touch. Welcomed the storm that was Marcello Saint Russo.

I moaned when his lips left mine, but he remained close, his forehead resting against mine. “Jesus, Mila. Everything has changed. Everything.”

“How?” I whispered. “Why?”

He shook his head. For the first time since he stormed into my life like a deadly hurricane, he didn’t seem like the proud, regal man I had come to know. But rather like a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Just…I need you to trust me today.” He placed his hands against my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. “Whatever happens, promise you’ll trust me.”

I studied him, searched his face for answers, but found none.

“Promise me, Mila.”

I nodded. “Okay. I promise.

He kissed me again, but softly this time. “Stay close. Do not leave my side, and—”

“Act the part?”

His lips curved at the ends. “Yeah.”

There was a knock on the limo door. “Mr. Saint,” James called. “We should get inside.”

Saint leaned back and straightened his suit jacket. “Stay. Close.”

The door opened, and my mind reeled. I had no idea what he meant by saying things had changed, or what exactly was happening. All I knew was nothing was black and white anymore. Nothing.

I pressed my hand on the large white sunhat I wore as I got out of the limo. Saint was standing to the side waiting for me, and when our eyes met, he smiled at me with nothing but warmth and affection. It would have floored me if I didn’t wonder whether it was all part of the show, an act both of us would participate in for the next hour.

He took my hand and led the way as a perfect gentleman. With his broad shoulders, expensive suit, perfectly groomed hair, and cleanly-shaven face, Marcello Saint Russo was the epitome of sophisticated power. Like a tropical storm, he was a force to be reckoned with, vigorous energy filling the open spaces around him. I watched as people stood to the side as we walked through the highly decorative and almost theatrically styled building. The women stared at him with batting eyelashes and flushed cheeks, and I was on the receiving end of their deathly glares when they noticed him clutching my hand. I didn’t blame them. Saint was a devilishly handsome man, and the confidence he exuded was a magnet that pulled everyone toward him.

With every step across the marble floor, my pulse raced, and with effort I managed to take deep breaths to allow air to settle in my lungs.

Mario, Saint’s lawyer, waited outside a large double door with his briefcase in hand.

“Is it legit?” Saint asked sternly without greeting him.

Mario’s frown formed grooves on his forehead. “I’m afraid so.”

“Fuck,” Saint blurted. He nodded toward the door. “Do they know?”

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