Page 24 of The Sins of Saint (The Sins of Saint 3)

“It’s you. You do this to me.”

“And I’ll never stop.” I clutched her jaw tighter. “You hear that, Mila? I will never. Fucking. Stop.”

A fresh tear slipped down her cheek, her hips still moving as her pussy fucked my finger, her hand keeping mine in place between her legs…until she pulled it out of her panties with a jerk.

She spun around, and I felt the burn of her palm against my cheek. The violent crack of her assault shattered the sexual tension.

I placed the hand I had in her panties two seconds ago against my seared skin, smelling the sweet scent of her lust that lingered on my fingers.

My gaze met hers, her face flushed and eyes wild. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

I smiled through the pain that lingered on my cheek. “Glad we can agree on that.”

“And you’re a liar too. You say you tried to be a better man, but it’s a goddamn lie.” Her expression hardened through the tears. “Last night was not you trying to be a good man. It was you trying to make yourself feel better by being a dick. Because admit it, Saint, it’s the only way you feel like you’re in control when it comes to us…by being an asshole and hurting me on your own terms.”

I scoffed. “That makes no fucking sense.”

“Oh, it does. It makes perfect sense. This secret you kept from me, it was grating at your conscience, and it made you feel like you were losing control. The great Marcello Saint Russo was losing control because of a petty secret and the uncertainty of becoming a father.” She wiped at her tears and straightened. “You didn’t offer me my freedom because you were trying to be a better man. You offered me my freedom hoping I’d leave and your guilt over keeping this secret will leave with me.” She inched closer with nothing but pure resolve in her eyes. “At least my inability to walk away from you will have you stewing in that guilt of yours. So, I guess both us will be fucking miserable.”

She stormed off and brushed past me, taking her hate and her pain with her. A good man would probably have gone after her, but we had established so many times…I wasn’t a good man. I needed time to think before I did something I’d regret. Before I hurt her more than I already had.

9

Mila

I was soul tired.Exhaustion weighed deep in my bones, and I just wanted it to stop. I wanted everything to stop. The constant doubt and uncertainty. The wait for another shoe to fucking drop and rip the world right out from under me. For every five minutes I allowed myself to enjoy the good and to dream of a future, there would be hours of incessant worry and fear that tightened around my insides. With Saint, nothing was certain. A life with him would never be certain. But there was one thing I would never doubt when it came to him…the fact that he owned me wholeheartedly. I was his, no matter what he did or which secrets he kept. I loved him no matter what kind of monster he turned out to be. But what did that say about me? The fact that I desired such a man, a man whose heart was black enough he would consider using a child so he could execute this toxic vendetta against his dad. A vendetta that seemed to fuel his every move.

I had to be a pretty mess for desiring him even after he confessed keeping this huge secret from me. I was seconds away from succumbing to him on the deck, his fingers, his touch, his voice, even his smell reeling me in like a fish on a hook. And I was taking the bait knowing very well I was being lured out of my world only to suffocate in his.

My feet couldn’t carry me fast enough down the spiral staircase, and I almost stumbled to the ground when I missed the last step. I grabbed hold of the iron rail and quickly managed to steady myself. The last thing I needed was for Saint to follow me down the stairs and find me a crying mess on the floor.

I wiped my palm down the front of my dress, and my eyes caught sight of some files on the dining room table. It wasn’t labeled or marked. Yet it piqued my curiosity as if it had my name stamped on it in big, bold, red letters. After Saint’s admission the night before, I was more convinced than ever that he had more secrets he kept from me.

I glanced up at the staircase. Saint didn’t follow me, so I looked back at the files on the table, calling me like adon’t-touch-buttonto a seven-year-old kid.

Cautiously, I snuck across the floor and took a quick glance over my shoulder when I reached the table. There was still no sign of Saint coming down from the deck.

My fingertips brushed down the rough, brown paper of the file. My heart was beating so fast one would think I was about to access one of the Pentagon’s top-secret files.

As silently as possible, I flipped the cover, and when I saw the title on the page, I held my breath.

Postnuptial Agreement.

With an unsteady hand, I picked up the page, and with every word my disbelief just grew stronger and stronger.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

I didn’t even flinch when I heard his voice behind me.

“What is this?” I continued to stare at the document.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I know it says a postnuptial agreement,” I turned to face him, “but what is this, exactly?”

Acting all nonchalant, he rounded the table to stand across from me, his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s a document that states that if—or when—you decide to leave, you then own half of all my assets.”

“What?”

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