Page 35 of The Sins of Saint (The Sins of Saint 3)

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to not look”—she took a bite, and the sauce dripped from the side—“sexy.” I frowned. “Yeah, you’re right. There’s nothing sexy about a woman eating a burger.”

She laughed, or at least tried to with a mouthful of Burger King. And I snickered, loving the sight of her so…unguarded. It was a sight she had never allowed me to see because she was afraid to let her guard down, always so determined to show nothing but strength and fortitude. And that was all my fault. Every goddamn burden she carried on her shoulders today was because of me.

“Mila—”

“Are you not going to eat yours? It’s delightfully greasy,” she chimed as she wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “I can practically feel my arteries clogging up.”

“Okay, then.” I took the burger from her hands just as she was about to take another bite. “That’s enough cholesterol for you. Nothing but healthy, non-fat food for you and our baby from now on.”

“Hey, I was enjoying that.”

“That’s great…because you just had your last bite for the next seven months.”

“You bought it,” she teased.

“And that’s my most recent mistake, yes.”

Mila placed her hand in front of her mouth, feigning a look of surprise. “Did the powerful Marcello Saint Russo just admit to making a mistake?”

“It doesn’t happen very often, so I suggest you enjoy it while you can.” I narrowed my eyes at her with a half-grin. She snickered, and just like that, everything seemed fucking right in the world. Just one happy sound from the woman I loved, and my life couldn’t have been more perfect—even as my past demons still clawed at my skull. Demons I needed to tell her about if I was serious about making this work between us…which I was. Very. Fucking. Serious.

I pulled a hand through my hair and let out a breath, staring out over the deck beautifully lit up with lights and colors that was now our own piece of heaven in the world. “Mila, I want to tell you everything. But I don’t even know where to start.”

She hopped onto her feet. “Dance with me.”

I scowled. “I’m trying to tell you—”

“I know. But dance with me first.” She held out her hand.

“Mila, we don’t even have music.”

“That’s okay. Just dance with me.”

Her eyes were the hue of spring, bright and brilliant, and I saw the hope she harbored inside her. So who the fuck was I to deny my wife this tiny request of a romantic moonlight dance?

“Okay.” I stood and followed her small footsteps out of the gazebo, finding an open spot below the night sky.

By the time she turned to face me, I was already standing right behind her, causing her to suck in a breath when she realized how close I was. She didn’t move a muscle, and neither did I. Silent. Frozen. Captivated.

“Ask me your question, Mila.”

I could see the vein in her neck pulse. Her heart was racing, and so was mine.

“Ask me.”

She licked her lips and stared at me from under thick, dark eyelashes. “First, dance with me.” Her voice was nothing more than a whisper in the cool breeze that sang through the flowers and leaves around us.

I settled my hand on her hip, the soft fabric of her dress caressing my fingertips. Her body trembled under my touch. It could have been fear. Or desire. Lust. Judging by the way her lips parted with a rush of air, I was convinced it was the latter. It amazed me how two opposites like us had such power over one another. The magnetism between us made it impossible to be apart. Yet together we seemed…hopeless. Powerful. But hopeless.

There was no music, nothing to guide our rhythm. But as I started to move my feet and clutched her hand in mine, waves of attraction created a flow between us that allowed us to sway to a measured cadence of our own. Feeling her against me was comforting, and I loved how she leaned her head against my chest as if she had been doing it all her life, as if she could find solace in my arms. It was hard to think of a time when she hated me, feared me, wanted nothing more than to be freed from me. My captive wife had become my resplendent queen.

13

Mila

It waswarm and comforting in his arms, the subtle sway of our bodies lulling the tension of the looming conversation I knew we were about to have. But I was engrossed by the buzz of romance that drifted around us, and I wanted to savor it for a few moments before the weight of my question crushed it.

Maybe I was foolish for wanting to know what it was that fueled his vendetta against his father. But somehow, it felt as if knowing the cause of his wounds would help me understand him better.

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