Page 11 of The Sins of Saint (The Sins of Saint 3)

“And I get that. I do.” I turned my back toward him and slipped the heels from my feet. “It would just be nice if you let your guard down long enough for me to take a peek inside.”

“Mila—”

“I have my question I want to ask today.”

He cocked a brow. “We’re still doing that?”

My gaze drifted across the huge master bedroom. The oak floors were decorated with a round, plush white carpet in front of the king-sized bed. The wooden paneling behind the bed created a balance with the stark white walls and satin sheets. Would I ever get used to the luxuries a life with Saint had to offer?

I sat down on the bed while Saint remained still across the room. “What happened to her?”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

Instantly, his expression hardened, his eyes dark under the cool light of the room. It seemed like his frame grew taller, his broad shoulders menacing as he so easily built up his defenses in the time it took me to let out a breath.

I swallowed, my words suddenly lost. For a moment, I backtracked and doubted my need to dig into his past so I could see where this hatred for his father stemmed from. But I had to know. I had to get a glimpse of the man behind the stone-cold façade he pulled off so damn well.

I sat up straight and forced myself to keep his gaze. “How did she die?”

Seconds ticked by as the air around us thickened, tension rolling off him in waves.

His jaw ticked, and I noticed him clench his fists. “This is a conversation for another day.” He grabbed one of the suitcases that stood by the door and carried it across the room, placing it on the bed.

“I think now is as good a time as any,” I pushed. I had to. Otherwise, he would never open up to me, and I’d never know the demons that lay below the surface.

He stilled and stared at the shirt he had just taken out of the suitcase, a far-away look on his face.

“Saint, we’re going to be parents. We need to work through all the bullshit of our past before we venture into the unknown future that’s waiting for us..”

“It’s quite a mindfuck, isn’t it?” His smile lacked amusement, yet was cloaked with contempt. “Both of us have enough childhood trauma to make any therapist’s eye twitch—all because of our parents’ shit. And here we are,” he looked my way, “about to be parents ourselves.”

“Yeah, well. It has crossed my mind, the irony of me becoming a parent when I had to grow up without one. At least your parents didn’t give you away.”

“Believe me, I’d be much better off if they did.”

“Tell me.” I reached for his hand, and he glanced down at where my fingers touched his skin. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

“Why?” His voice was soft and low. “Why do you want to know about something that happened when I was eleven years old? Something neither you or I—or anyone else, for that matter—can change?”

“Because no matter how much we hate to admit it, our past shaped us into who we are today. Our childhood trauma will always follow us, Saint. So, if we want to know each other—really know each other—we need to let each other in.”

He turned to look at me, every line on his face hardened. “You meanIshould letyouin.” He leaned down, lowering himself so he could level me with his icy stare. “I already know you,Milana Katarina Torres. Your past. Your family. Your entire goddamn life. I know more about you than you do.” He inched closer, and I hated the hard look in his eyes, glaring at me like I was the enemy. “Do not pretend like this is about us getting to know each other when we both know all you’re trying to do is get inside my head.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.”

He placed both his palms beside me on the mattress, leaning in and caging me between his arms. “I would caution you not to push me any further since you already tested my patience with your bold display of misplaced courage in the back of that goddamn limo.”

Words coated with spite and malice oozed from his lips and smothered every chance I had of not being intimidated by him. He provoked fear as easily as he incited lust.

I held my breath, unsure of what he’d do next, but I refused to cower from looking him in the eye.

He bit his lower lip, nostrils flaring and eyebrows slanted inward as he studied me. “Get some rest.”

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