by Sadie Grubor
His hands slide up my arms, flatten at my shoulders, then glide down to palm my breasts.
"Did. He. Touch. You?" he repeats, unable to hold back the anger.
Releasing my breasts, he moves to my sides, following the outline of my body with his fingertips. At my hips, he clutches, pressing his forehead to my stomach.
"No," I whisper.
The need to touch him is almost unbearable, but I don't understand why. I fist my hands at my sides to get the emotion under control, and look down at him.
Lifting his head from my body, his hands continue their slow descent.
Saint is all dominance, push and pull, and overpowering. This light touch is confusing and makes me nervous.
At my ankles, he unbuckles each strap of the heels before freeing my feet from my panties and shoes. Slipping his hands back up my legs, he stops at my thighs, gripping. For a long moment, he doesn't move, then he rises to his full height.
Towering over me, he lifts my face. Our eyes meet for a moment, then he lets go, steps back, and walks around me.
Blinking, I can't help but wonder what the hell that was about.
Turning at the sound of water, I find he started the fire and the bath.
"Wash him off you," he commands, eyes on the rapidly filling tub.
Anger tears down my fears and apprehension.
Now I'm unclean?" I ask, incredulous. Marching up to his side, not caring that I'm stripped bare before him, I get up in his personal space.
"I'm a whore, Saint," I remind him. "I've sold myself so—"
The snap of his head in my direction and the fury in his eyes silences me.
"They were your choice," he growls. "Did you offer yourself to Arman?"
Nausea washes over me at the thought of the man who abused a teenage girl and tried to repeat the act tonight.
"Exactly," he grumbles. "Now, get in the fucking bath and wash his goddamn touch from your skin!" He stabs his hands into his short hair before running them over his face.
"I can't stand the thought of his hands on you," he confesses.
His voice, though quiet, holds an ominous quality that makes me comply with his demands.
The moment I'm chest deep in the warm water, my muscles relax and a feeling of relief encompasses me. I sigh, resting back against the tub.
When I slip down, submerging myself completely, the sting on my face reminds me how fucked up it's is going to look.
Saint
My teeth clench as I lock my jaw. In the small entry hallway of my bedroom, I place my palms on the wall and breathe through my nose. After this evening, trying to keep the demon from emerging is just as difficult as the thought of her being out of my sight.
Bringing her to my bedroom wasn't in the plan, but not being there to protect her has done nothing but fuck with my head. It's so overwhelming, even the dark creature feels it. He usually consumes feelings, not experiences them, and now…he wants blood.
Closing my eyes, I inhale one last time, exhale on a whoosh, and push off the wall, exiting my room. On the second floor, I stop at the large abstract painting in the long hallway and touch the bottom of the frame, unlocking the special wall closet with my fingerprint.
Gripping one of my favorite blades, an amputation knife from the 1700's, I continue to the first floor where I find Sketch in the same place as before.
The moment I enter the open area, his eyes move from the screen of his laptop to me, then down to the blade I'm tapping against my leg.
"Find Arman," I demand. "I want him alive."
Understanding flashing in his eyes, he responds with a single nod and focuses back on his screen.
Approaching the long wall of windows, I look out at the night covered city of Chicago, but I don't see a fucking thing. The roar of my blood drowns out the world and the many ways Arman will suffer for touching her play on repeat in my mind. He'll also serve as a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can mess with what belongs to me.
I don't hear my cell, but I feel it vibrate against my chest. Removing the suit jacket, I retrieve the phone before tossing the fabric on the back of a couch and press it to my ear.
"Yes?"
"You can't kill him," Angelo says, no greeting, just orders.
"He's a dead man," I inform, still staring unseeing out the window.
"Arman's uncle would not be happy if—"
"Then he shouldn't have touched what belongs to me," I say, the words raw and harsh in my throat.
He sighs heavily.
"Dante, this will create a problem, and right now, we don't need any further problems," he tries once more. "She's a whore, not a wife."
"Angelo," I say, much calmer than I feel on the inside, "tell his uncle to back down or I'll have to remind him of the favor I did for him with a reenactment on his wife," I threaten, probably revealing too much.
Angelo isn't aware of everything I do, and if he knew the favors owed me or direct relationships I've been building, he would have probably tried to kill me years ago.
"What favor?"
"Just pass that along," I state, hanging up and tossing the phone to the couch.
"He's not going to let that go," Sketch says from behind me, but my rage doesn't allow me to care about my overshare. Turning, I focus my gaze on him.
"You have multiple fucking things to take care of, Sketch," I remind with a sneer. "How about you get me what I've asked for before I acquaint you with the sharp edge of this blade," I say, holding up the knife.
He stands, unmoving, and I can't fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. He knows damn well I'll do it; I've done it before. I also know he fears me, but still, he stands, undeterred. I respect that, hence why he's the closest thing I have to a friend.
The sound of my cell phone ends our standoff. He grabs it off the couch and glances at the screen.
"Answer it," I say, turning back to the window.
"Hello?" Sketch greets. "Yeah, I'll pass it along."
"Can't find him, can they?" I snarl.
"I'll have him by tomorrow," Sketch assures.
"I'm not sure I can wait that long," I admit.
"Is she all right?"
At his question, I turn to face him again. "She's not your concern," I say, the warning in my tone clear.
Hands up in defense, he's quick to retort. "Just want to know if we need the doc to make a visit. That's all."
"No," I clip out, heading for the bar. Snatching up the vodka, I drink straight from the bottle, letting the alcohol burn my throat and suppress the demon until I can unleash on my target.
"Let them know they have twenty-four hours to find the asshole," I growl, slamming the bottle onto the bar. Feeling a presence, I spin, finding Mei standing on the stairs. Her cheek is red and swollen, having reached the corner of her eye, causing it to partially shut.
Regardless of the damage done, her dark wet hair lays in long, wet strands, framing her face, giving her skin a translucent quality and brightening her blue eyes.
Moving my appraising eyes back to the mark she currently wears, I grind my teeth and grip the handle of the amputation knife. Arman will know my creature intimately as it devours his life one cut at a time. And if she would tell me her real name, I'd carve it on his heart before ripping it out with my bare hands.
By the flash of fear in her eyes, I'm sure my look is murderous. But instead of running, she squares her shoulders, and says, "I need ice."
Her appearance is enticing, but, fuck me, if her defiance and challenges aren't motherfucking glorious. My balls tighten, sending a pulse to the tip of my cock.
I watch as she descends the stairs. Her eyes drop to the knife in my hand and she pauses. It doesn't last long, just a couple seconds.
When she makes to pass by me, I reach out and grab her arm. Her head whips in my direction, surprise flushing her face.
Dropping the knife to the floor, I grip the back of her neck and pull her against my chest. With a fist in her hair, I tilt her f
ace to mine and scan the swollen mark as well as the sucker bite on her neck. Tilting her head, I latch my mouth over the mark and suck.
She tenses, knotting her fingers in my white dress shirt. My cock aches, urging me to push her against the wall and fuck her until I've absorbed her into my skin.
Removing my mouth, I examine my bite mark, making sure it erases his. Pleased to find it does, I release her. Her hand comes up, covering the spot.
"Ice is in the freezer," I tell her, turning back to my vodka.
Closing my eyes, I grip the edge of the bar, fighting against the demon's demand to consume her.
Saint
It doesn't take twenty-four hours. It only takes three for my men to tell me where Arman is hiding. Well…to tell who is hiding him.
"I told you," Sketch snaps, slamming his laptop shut. "You can't trust that asshole!"
Bent at the waist, my palms pressing to the dark wooden dinner table, I stare at the stained grain, satisfaction curling the corners of my mouth.
"He probably had him when he fucking called," Sketch continues, crossing his arms over his chest.
Smile still on my face, I raise my head and watch Sketch's brow draw down, wrinkling the skin above the bridge of his nose.
"What the fuck are you smiling about?"
Straightening, I lift one shoulder, and say, "I know where he is."
"Yeah, fucking Angelo has him hidden away. How the hell do you expect to—?"
My smile grows larger, silencing him mid-sentence.
"The fuck are you up to?"
"Angelo isn't the only one who can play this game," I remind him. "I may not get my hands on him tonight, but…" I stretch my arms out to my sides, drop my head back, and exhale a long breath, letting the creature move beneath my skin. "I'll have my vengeance," I growl, reigning it in before it's too late.
"Vincent?" I call out to the apartment.
"Yes, sir." He appears instantly, and I turn toward his rough, baritone voice.
"We'll be needing the country estate," I inform.
His eyes grow round. Having been with me since he was young, he knows what my parents' abandoned home means. Over the last few years, it's become both my sanctuary and my creature's playground—the alter for redemption and forgiveness I'll never get or deserve.
"You know what needs to be done. And you have one week."
"Yes, sir." He nods before leaving the room.
"The Country Estate," Sketch says, quiet and factual.
"Yes," I confirm, though it wasn't a question.
Sketch has only been brought to the estate once, when he ended up on the other side of my dark creature. It’s a place he never wants to be again, and, luckily for him, he's become an asset, so going back hasn’t happened.
Now, knowing where and who has Arman, the thrill of returning to the estate and promise of blood have awakened the beast. Keeping him subdued is growing more difficult with his obsessions so close. The certainty of being released, of blood, and the woman upstairs in my room…he's so close to surfacing.
"Saint?" Sketch's question is full of nervous tension.
Closing my eyes, all I see is the lift of her chin. The way her damp hair stuck to her face. The taste of her skin.
"I'll be upstairs," I say through clenched teeth. "You should probably sleep," I toss over my shoulder. "We have a lot to do in the coming days."
"Is everything else on hold then?" His question is accented by the screech of his chair.
"Of course not," I respond, rounding the corner for the stairs.
Stopping on the second floor of the apartment to return my knife to the hidden wall safe, a soft thump comes from the room Mei's been staying. I secure the painting back into place and follow the noise.
Quietly, I enter, finding the room dark out a sliver of light coming from the bathroom. Keeping to the dark corner, I watch her emerge. She's fully dressed, even wearing fucking shoes.
Walking to one of her bags, she crouches down and rummages around.
"Fuck," she growls, slamming her palms on the leather duffle.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Having not noticed me, she jumps up and spins.
"You scared the shit out of me," she grounds out.
"What are you doing?" I ask, stepping out of the corner.
"Getting dressed," she responds immediately, but there's something about the way she says the words. It's too innocent.
Rewording my question, I ask, "Do you think you're going somewhere?"
In the light streaming from the bathroom, I watch her shake her head.
"The shoes," I point out, not missing the way she straightens or the tension in her posture.
"Mei, you don't honestly believe you can walk out of here, do you?" I cross my arms over my chest.
"I'm not—"
"There are codes you don't have and my men are all over this building," I explain, dropping my arms and walking toward her. "They are downstairs, at the front doors, in cars outside the building…I could go on. The only way you get out of this apartment is with my permission or on my arm."
I reach for her chin, but she turns away from my grasp.
"I'm not stupid," she spits out, taking two steps back.
"Really? Then perhaps you'd like to explain where the clutch I gave you went," I prompt.
The flash of surprise on her face and part of her lips gives away so much.
"I'm not stupid either," I tell her, keeping my voice low.
Her mouth snaps shut.
Out of curiosity, I ask, "How far did you think you would get?"
She steps back twice more as I move to sit in the high back armchair.
"I think I forgot it in the bathroom," she finally responds.
"Yes, I'm sure you forgot it," I play along with her lie, but only for a moment. "My men were at the door, Mei," I confess. "There isn't a way to escape the choice you made."
"What choice?" she snorts. "I didn't have a choice. Your pissing contest with your cousin wasn't my doing," she argues.
"I didn't strip away your mask that night," I retort, pushing out of the chair.
I advance. She retreats.
"You stripped away the good girl act all on your own," I remind her. "You gave me a taste of the real woman behind the façade. That was of your own doing."
Having backed her against the wall, I cage her in with my arms.
"That was all you, my pretty, dirty, little dead girl," I say, bringing my face so close each of her heavy breaths warms my mouth. "I've glimpsed your darkness," I whisper, feeling her body tense, "and it's fucking beautiful."
Unable to fight the need to feel her, taste her, I take her mouth with mine. The moment my tongue touches the seam of her lips, she sucks me inside. Bringing one hand down from the wall, I grab the back of her neck, drawing her closer. And just like every time my mouth is on her, I forget my need for oxygen until my lungs protest.
On a large gasp for air, she turns her head, putting her marked face in my line of sight. Even in the dim light, her darkening swollen skin is obvious. The anger and bloodlust returns.
"He's a dead man," I say on a low growl, feeling her stiffen.
Panting, she asks, "Who are you?"
The question confuses me at first, but she continues.
"When Felix told him I was yours, he…everything changed," she says in whisper. "Everyone in that club feared you, but I know you aren't the leader or whatever you call it."
A quick laugh bubbles up from my chest.
"No, I'm not in charge, but I…" I hesitate, unsure how to explain without scaring her more.
My rank in the family was earned with respect, but also in apprehension of my dark nature. My creature, what earned me the nickname, The Saint, is well known and feared. Mei carries a darkness, but if she knew, saw, my basest nature at work…there's no coming back from that. Even a few of the men in our organization who thought themselves badasses cower in the face of my true self.
"
I'm high within the ranks," I finish, deciding she doesn't need to know all my demons—yet.
"The ranks?" Her eyes search for mine.
"It's not important," I state, releasing my hold on her neck and taking a step back. "Take off the shoes," I order, and she hesitates. Watching her battle within herself, wanting to fight me, but knowing she needs to pick her battles, makes my dick throb. Finally, she toes off her running shoes.
"I didn't put them on to escape," she confesses, kicking them to the side. "I prefer to have them on or next to my bed when I sleep."
"Why?" I ask, taking her hand.
Pulling her out of the room, I motion for her to climb the stairs.
"What are we doing?" she asks, looking at the stairs like they're a death sentence.
"Tell me about the shoes," I press.
"Tell me why we're going upstairs," she retorts, glaring at me.
Recapturing her hand, I tug her up the stairs to my bedroom and guide her down the small hallway past the bathroom she used earlier.
"Strip," I order, unbuttoning my shirt and slipping it off.
"Wh-What?" she stutters, watching as I unbuckle my pants and let them fall to the floor.
"Strip," I repeat.
Pulling off my socks and white t-shirt, I approach her.
"I left the ice downstairs," she says, her eyes roaming down my almost naked body.
Reaching around her, I press a button on the wall.
"Yes, sir?" comes through the intercom.
Holding the button down, I say, "Send up an ice pack," and release the button.
Locking my eyes on hers, I grip the bottom of her shirt, pull it over her head, and toss it to the floor before hooking my fingers into the front of her jeans. Our eyes stay on each other's as I undo the closure, lower the zipper, and push them over her hips.
Pressing my barefoot on the denim between her feet, I say, "Step out."
She blinks a couple times, then complies.
I lower my gaze, taking in the woman before me. She stands next to my bed in a tight gray tank top and white panties, and her youth has never been so very evident. I should be ashamed for the horrible ways I want to dirty those little white panties.
The knock on the door brings my eyes to her face and the fresh mark. My wicked desires are replaced with a fierce protectiveness. I straighten my spine, trying to resign myself to this feeling. I'm used to possessiveness and protecting what's mine, but this need to keep her safe, untouched, while at the same wanting to own every part of her, goes deeper than I want to admit.
