Page 1 of The Fall of Sin (The Sins of Saint 2)

1

Mila

I glancedin the side mirror.

Saint stood in the middle of the road with his hands behind his head still screaming, the sound of my name on his lips drowned out by the increasing distance between us.

I was split wide open, and my soul bled the tears that slipped down my cheeks. The faster we drove away from him, the more my heart cracked, as if a part of it was left behind on the road and at his feet. There was a time when I would have done anything to get away from him. But now, as I watched the distance between us increase with every passing second, I had to fight the urge to stop the car and run back to him. Back to the monster who took me, broke me, and made me his. It had been minutes and already my skin grew hungry for his touch, my soul grieving the loss. When did this happen? When did the pain he inflicted turn into heartbreak? When did my need for freedom turn into a desire for submission?

I inhaled deeply and took one final glance at his fading reflection before focusing on the road ahead—a road I didn’t know where it would lead to. The sound of a roaring engine and the speed of a sportscar took me farther and farther away from the man who started this nightmare. A nightmare that somehow crossed the border and settled as a dream only to be thrown back into the darkness. Now, here I was, unsure if I’d ever find the light again.

Sharp turns, screeching tires, and the crank of shifting gears reminded me how dire this situation really was.

It felt like we spent hours in the car, driving through the streets of Rome. The city wasn’t as beautiful as I thought it would be. The rich history depicted in every building and path did not appeal to me. I didn’t even want to stare out the window. Maybe it was the big black thing that pulsed in my chest, in that tiny space where my heart used to be, that had the power to make everything seem ugly and ruined. It made me see every crack, every broken piece, every speck of dirt instead of seeing the city’s beauty.

“You okay over there?”

I glanced down at my hands in my lap. “Yeah.”

“I can tell you’re lying.”

“I’m good. Really.” I pulled the pins from my hair, and the curls fell over my shoulders. “I’m just confused.”

“That makes two of us.”

I turned to face the driver—a familiar stranger.

“So, you’re really Milana Katarina Torres?”

“According to my DNA, yes.”

“Fuck me. This is just…insane. Milana, back from the dead.”

I glanced out the window. “That would be true if I was actually dead.”

“To me, you were.”

I tucked my curls behind my ear, subconsciously reaching for the tiny scar, a subtle reminder of what I’d survived through all the years. Saint was now another hardship I could add to that list. Only the scar he left wasn’t on my skin. It went far deeper than I could have imagined. I didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere between getting kidnapped, married, and fucked against a wall, the lines blurred for me. It was no longer black and white, a huge motherfucking gray area now screwing with my head…and my heart.

“So, where have you been all these years?”

“New York.”

“America? Well, that explains the accent, then.”

I smiled half-heartedly. “Yeah. An Italian girl with an American accent. Who knew?”

The car swerved as we took a sharp turn, and I grabbed hold of the door handle. He looked in his rear-view mirror. “I don’t think they’re following us. Why did you run from him? Did he hurt you?”

It was a simple question with so many complicated answers. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, I’d wanted to run from him so many times. Yet, as I sat there in the car thinking about all the things he had done to me, the emotional turmoil and the humiliation, a part of me wanted to go back to him. It was insane to even think that way, to entertain the thought of returning to that boat just to be in his presence again. I was a masochist. The gnawing ache in my gut confirmed that. Things had changed. I didn’t know how, where, or when. But it changed. His touch turned from vile and invading to exquisite and welcomed. And now I could no longer distinguish between right and wrong, wanted and unwanted.

“Mila?” The voice plucked me to reality. “Did he hurt you? Did Saint—”

“No. No, he didn’t.” I swallowed and looked down at my hands in my lap.

“Good. That’s good, then.”

A heavy silence settled, and I snuck a glance at him. Raven hair, short at the sides and back, longer curls at the top. With a strong jaw and deep voice, it was easy to mistake him for someone a little older. His skin was the same olive tone as mine—a blessed year-round tan. I could see some resemblance between us, but even though he was my brother, he was still a stranger to me, a fact I didn’t consider when I jumped into the car with him, desperate to get away from Saint.

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