Page 5 of The Villain's Beloved (The Villain's Duet 2)

“The Bernardi family.” My blood heated just thinking about them, about how they thought they owned everything and everyone, the fucking leeches who sucked everything good out of this motherfucking world.

Saint paced a few steps, still rubbing his jaw as the wheels turned inside his thoughts. “So, am I supposed to believe that the Moore girl being here is just a coincidence or an unplanned complication—as you put it?” He settled back, his eyes meeting mine. “Or would it be safe for me to assume that you needing my yacht to lay low for a while was bullshit and that she was part of this plan all along?”

I smirked and chose silence as my answer. Saint was a smart man, like me. There was no puzzle we couldn’t solve. No problem we couldn’t fix. And that was precisely what I’d been doing until now…fixing a fucking problem and ensuring I protected that which I had claimed ownership of years ago.

Charlotte.

But like me, you didn’t get into Saint’s good graces by spitting bullshit and reciting riddles. We were straight shooters.

I stepped up to him, not even fucking blinking as I looked him in the eye. I wanted him to see how damn serious I was. I wanted him to witness my resolve as I confessed both my weakest yet strongest vulnerability. “I love her.”

Silence stretched between us—a taut rope tightening around our throats. That was what love was like for men like us. A cord that could either snap and let us plummet to our deaths or a chain that would take our last breath while our hearts exploded. Love was the one thing that could destroy us and leave us crippled. The one thing we couldn’t control.

Saint cleared his throat. “I know firsthand how love can come out of nowhere and derail everything. And I am the last man to stand here and preach, reminding you what’s at risk.”

“Then don’t.”

“But she could get hurt.”

I cocked a brow. “And your wife couldn’t?”

“It’s different with us.”

“How? Explain to me how it’s different from how your relationship started with you not giving a fuck about your wife. Me, on the other hand, I feel something for Charlotte. I want to protect her and not use her for my own gain.”

“I’d watch what you say next if I were you.” He stepped up, making himself seem taller to emphasize his challenging threat.

I matched it by moving closer, not backing down. “As you said, you are the last person to preach to me. So, here’s a friendly warning. Don’t.”

Men could be family. Brothers. Uncles. Best friends. But all those close relationships meant nothing whenever wives, girlfriends, and women got brought up. It would make us turn from civil acquaintances to savage beasts.

Saint studied me while I refused to look away. “Does she know?”

I shifted. “She knows what she needs to know.”

“That’s a shitty answer.”

“To a shitty question.”

“I’m serious, Elijah.”

“And so am I.” The room seemed to get smaller with every passing second. “My past is just that. Past. Charlotte is my present. My future. There’s no need to confuse one with the other.”

Saint inched back, rubbing his fists together, the wheels inside his head turning rapidly. “It’s not her confusion I’m worried about here.”

The back of my neck prickled with warning. “If you have something you want to say, just say it.”

“Listen, Elijah. I am not the bad guy here, and I sure as fuck didn’t come here to fight.”

“Why did you come here, Saint? Why, after you heard I had Charlotte here, did you go through all the trouble to pay us a fucking visit?” I knew my anger was misdirected, that Saint and I had the type of relationship where we would never mean each other any harm. But I was on edge, my skin feeling too tight while my skull throbbed. It was like I waited for something terrible to happen, for shit to hit the fan, and I’d end up losing her. The thought alone had rage knocking at my chest, begging to be set free and devour everyone who got between Charlotte and me.

Saint straightened his black suit jacket, the epitome of calm composure. But I saw it in his eyes, the glint of his intention to tread on broken glass. To touch a subject we chose to avoid at all cost as a way to preserve our friendship.

“Do I have to be worried here, Elijah?”

“No,” I spat out.

“Then why does it feel like I do?”

---