Page 58 of No Saint

His fingers drop my hair, and instinct drives me further back, the unforgiving surface of the wall biting into my shoulder blades as my eyes squeeze shut and fear injects itself into my system as he raises his hand.

It irked me more than anyone could ever understand that a simple movement exposed all my weak points. That a raised hand pushed deeply buried memories right to the surface, forcing me to remember every time it happened, forcing me to relive the pain of every strike from every male that had ever laid a finger on me. There were many. For a long time.

My stepfather made sure of that. I was sure it was some sick game of his, a pleasure, to see me hurt, to see me knocked down, in pain, bleeding. He did it often and with a smile.

I’d trained myself some, I taught myself to defend myself, but Gabriel was bigger, stronger and ten times more lethal. He made all the men in my past look like bunny rabbits.

I finally open my eyes, swallowing down the bile on the back of my tongue to find Gabriel staring at me intently and curiously.

When I don’t cower or move away again, he trails a finger down the edge of my jaw. “You flinched. You flinch a lot. Why?”

I don’t answer.

“Why do you fear me so much, Amelia? Why do you deny yourself something that’s so very obvious between us. You feel it. I know you do.” He leans, his breath fanning across my lips but I quickly turn my head, breaking the contact with his hand and stopping any possibility of that mouth against mine.

He drops his forehead to my temple, “You will love me, Amelia.”

There was no threat in the words, no malice or deception. It was a promise and when he pulls away and I slide my eyes back to his, I see the determination set within them, burning as hot as wildfire. It was a vow.

He would take nothing less than my whole heart.

And I feared, more than he would ever know, that giving it over would take no time at all.

24

And so it goes.

She tries to avoid me.

Tries.

And fails.

We have dinner every night, she sits close to me, we talk.

I’ve found her drawing more often than not now, her sketchbook almost filled end to end with beautiful dresses and other pieces. I’d stolen looks inside plenty of times over the past two weeks, snapping images of my favorites so I can keep them.

I’d set up, as promised, her classes so she can start working towards her goal, but they would begin at the start of the next semester, here at the house.

While the city was not yet quiet and I’d lost more stock and men to bloody gun fights and midnight heists, it had quietened down since the attack on the house. I’d reinforced the grounds, employed more men, more cameras, replaced the windows across the side of the house with reinforced glass and heavier security and lock down measures. Amelia would not be unsafe in my house, inourhouse.

My wife was safe here. With me.

Even if she fought it every damn step of the way.

She hadn’t allowed me to get close again, hadn’t allowed me to taste her lips, drown in her scent but she would break. I was patient. I would not take what she wasn’t ready to give.

But I knew it wasn’t a problem with attraction. She wanted me.

I saw it in every stolen glance, in every subtle shift of her body, from when she caught me in the home gym, working out in just my shorts and secretly admired me when she thought I couldn’t see. Her thighs pressed together and she watched, stealing her fill.

She tortured herself.

And if anyone knew torture, it was me. She would keep going, for a short while, she’ll hold on to that stubborn resolve and withstand the turmoil inside herself. She’ll deny herself what she wants and needs because in her head, right in this moment, it was right.

From what I’ve learned, the girl had fought her entire life. She had seen hardship more than most, handled pain like it was currency and I was still figuring it out.

As a man who had everything, I wanted to earn her secrets and her past.

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