Page 27 of The Sins of Saint (The Sins of Saint 3)

Now, I wished I hadn’t.

10

Saint

I remained silent,just standing there and watching her face as the reality of the images she saw sank in.

Mutilated faces.

Bloodied bodies.

Marred skin.

Just thinking about it sent a thrill down my spine. I had never relished anyone’s death as much as I did in theirs.

“Jesus,” she whispered, and the files slipped through her fingers. Photographs of the victims pooled by her feet, her hand trembling as she placed it over her mouth.

“Recognize them?” I knew she did.

“What is this?” Her voice shook, her emerald eyes fixed on the gruesome images. “These men…I know them.”

“Of course you do.” I bent down and picked up one photograph. “You remember him?”

Instantly, she reached for the scar behind her ear.

“I see you do.” I inched closer.

“What…why?” She narrowed her eyes in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“See, this is how it works.” I leaned back against the dining table. “You hurt my wife, you die.” I shrugged. “As easy as that. All of these men hurt you, and now they’re dead. And this one,” I held up the photo in my hand, “the man who gave you that scar, his death got dragged out a little. James was feeling particularly edgy that day.”

Her face paled, her beautiful eyes big and round as the shock set in. “You did this?”

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t kill them myself, as I was too busy keeping you in check early on in our arrangement. But I don’t like getting my hands dirty with the blood of low-life pieces of shit. Yet this one,” I glanced at the image in my hand, “this one I regret not torturing myself. I would have loved to see the blood drain from his body, staining the cold concrete floor he died on.”

“What kind of monster are you?” Her expression was that of disbelief, maybe even a little disgust.

“Come, now, Mila. Do not act as if you didn’t know who or what I truly am. I killed Brad. I killed one of my dad’s bodyguards.” I inched closer. “I killed your own goddamn brother. So do not pretend you’re shocked by this. And besides, that day on the yacht when I said you never had to worry about this son of a bitch hurting anyone, you knew exactly what I meant.”

“You killed four men, Saint. Brutally murdered them like they were cattle.”

“And they hurt you like you were nothing but a stuffed fucking toy for them to play with.”

“You had no right—”

“Theyhad no right, Mila.”

“They hurt me, not you. I dealt with my trauma. I cried all the tears I needed to cry in order to work through the shit these men did to me.”

“Did you? Did you really?” I stalked forward. “Is that why you touch that scar behind your ear whenever you’re nervous? Anxious?”

Again, she reached for the scar. “Old habits die hard.”

“Can you honestly tell me that you never once thought about killing these men? While they touched you. Hurt you. Using you as a human goddamn ashtray?”

“Don’t.”

“All those hours you were locked in that closet,” I shoved the picture in her face, “this man calling you a whore and a cunt even though you were no older than ten. Can you tell me that killing him in his sleep neveroncecrossed your mind?”

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