by Sadie Grubor
With my free hand, I spread out the other documents and clippings. Headline after headline appear. The one discovering an unknown catatonic woman locked away in a pristine room. The next highlighting the discovery of her identity as Lisa Michaels, previously believed to be a runaway. Another revealing the name of the woman who escaped The Dollhouse Killer. The last I glance at announces the unearthing of mass graves, mutilated bodies, and well-preserved victims.
Wrapping both arms around my middle, I try to hold it together. His familiar presence and the sound of multiple sets of feet make me tense. The weight of their eyes is enough to snap the fragile string holding my sanity together.
"Mei—" Saint begins.
"What have you done?" I ask, staring down at the black and white paper trail.
Sketch snorts, "Us? I'd say you've grown up around some pretty fucked up shit Doll Face."
Closing my eyes, I lower my chin and take one breath. On my exhale, I snap my eyes open. Glaring at Sketch from under my furrowed brow, I smirk.
"You have no idea," I taunt.
"You believe it's your father," Saint pulls my attention to him.
"He won't ever stop," I whisper.
"He's dead," Saint states, approaching me.
As he rounds the desk, I skirt around to the side, needing distance from him—from all of it. Lifting my chin, I study his face, wondering if he's stating a confirmed fact or a promise.
"There's no way he's still alive." Saint grabs another folder from under the pile and tosses it in my direction.
Staring at it, I can't bring myself to read any more.
"He was seriously ill," Saint continues, and I raise one brow at him.
"You think." It's not a question. "He kidnapped women, and men, so he could have live dolls. So, his favorite little doll could play with them."
"Jesus," Sketch scoffs.
"He doesn't exist," I snap at his exclamation, shoving the papers back at Saint.
"You have no idea what you've done," I say on a humorless laugh.
"It's not your father," Saint growls, straightening to his full height. "Who else could it be?"
"There is no one else," I cry. "He's the only one. It was just him and me until the day one of our dolls tricked me." I clamp a hand over my mouth.
"One of your dolls?" Sketch asks, disbelief in his voice.
I remove my hand from my mouth. There's no need to hide anything now. He's unleashed every demon possessed skeleton in my closet. Leaning forward, I press my palms to the desk and drop my head.
"Your information is wrong, Saint. The only person on this planet obsessed with getting his little doll back is my father."
"It's impossible—"
"No," I shout, making his eyes widen. "Nothing is impossible."
I push away from the desk and cross my arms over my chest.
"He captured and collected more women and men than those," I point to the papers, "files can tell you. They only document the ones they confirmed."
Dropping my arms to my sides, I straighten and fight back the tears.
"You were tricked by someone he kidnapped, one of your dolls?" Sketch asks, still analyzing my admission and making a point to note he didn't miss the way I said our.
"Yes, your file will mention Sara Franklin as rescuing me from the house during her escape." I can't keep the smirk off my face. "Fact is, Sketch," I say his name like an insult, "I let her free." His mouth opens, but before he can say a word, I finish, "Because I wanted to play with my new doll."
His mouth snaps shut.
"She could talk. The others couldn't."
I watch his eyes round.
"That's right." I move my eyes back to Saint. He's watching, observing, evaluating. "I grew up with the dolls you've been asking me about, but those stuffed dolls," I nod toward the box holding the ragdoll, "were only inspiration for the dolls my father made me believe were normal to have."
Saint moves, rounding the desk. I begin my retreat, terrified of what will happen once he gets his hands on me.
"You should've seen the terror and disgust in the eyes of my first psychologist. She was very pretty, but the look of horror on her face when I asked if my daddy got her for me," I continue. "Or the other psychiatrists and doctors who couldn't hide their feelings when I didn't know how to interact with other children. And then there were the dolls," I say on another humorless laugh.
Moving to put more space between us, his eyes track every evasive step I make.
"I'd never seen a Barbie Doll, so of course I wanted to make one," I drop my voice, "just like my father showed me."
Saint stops three feet away from me. His face still blank, revealing nothing.
"Fucking hell," Sketch rasps.
"The nurse at the hospital needed twenty-eight stitches to close up the wound on her neck." I shrug. "And I needed to be bathed three times to get the blood out of my hair and off my skin."
"Come here," Saint growls.
"You want all the dirty, terrible details of my past, you got them," I lash out. "The first time my father came for me, regardless of the blood coating the floor, I was still ready to go with him. I wanted to go back to my dolls. How sick is that?"
"Dahlia," he says, his voice a warning.
"It wasn't until he plunged a knife into my foster brother right in front of me that I finally had a normal reaction. I finally feared him. You see, it was too bloody, unclean, imprecise. That's the only reason I knew it was different, and terror finally switched on. I ran."
My eyes lose focus and I'm right back to that night.
"We ran," I whisper.
"Kayla," Saint offers.
I nod, my mind flashing forward to the second time my father came for me.
"The next time I was ready to fight back, but…" The face of the police officer flashes in my mind and a sob escapes my mouth. "I thought he was my father," I cry.
Strong arms come around me, pinning mine to my sides and pressing my face into his chest. His familiar scent invades my senses, bringing with it a sense of comfort and safety.
"He didn't die." Saint's words halt my sobs.
Pulling my head back, I look up at him, and whisper, "That's impossible."
"You injured him, but he pulled through," Saint says so factual, I start to worry about how calm he's being. "If you read the files, you'll find the cop survived. The only thing the police were ever looking for was a missing girl, and your father was terminally ill. He can't be the one sending the dolls to you. In fact, I'm not so sure he was the one who came for you the second time."
Shaking my head, I swallow the lump of unshed tears.
"There's no one else," I say. "It was just…"
"Just?"
"I found out later Lisa Michaels, my mother, was in the house, but I never saw her," I admit. "It wasn't until much later when I read a news article online that I found out she was in the house and put into a long-term care facility."
"Why didn't you go with your mother's family?" Sketch's question sounds farther away than he really is.
Snorting, I move my eyes to him. "Why would they want an abomination—a reminder of what happened to their daughter?"
"Did they tell you that?" I don't miss the disgust or hint of anger in Saint's question.
"Not directly," I hiccup. "And the exact words were ‘we can't bring that abomination around our family. You saw what she did to that poor nurse, heard the things she said. It's too dangerous for our other children, grandchildren, and she would be a constant reminder of what our daughter suffered.'"
"You memorized it word for word," Saint says low, even.
"I was young, not stupid," I snap. "Besides, they were right. I was dangerous."
"You were a fucking kid," Sketch argues.
"Mei, if you didn't know your own mother was in the house, you can't be sure your father didn't have an accomplice, apprentice, or someone else in the house," Saint brings the conversation back on track.
"I…I don't know,"
I whisper, dropping my forehead to his chest.
Fisting his gray, long sleeved shirt, I swallow hard. The cacophony of emotions start taking their toll and exhaustion washes over me. My body sags, Saint taking my weight.
"I've done things," I whisper against his chest.
"We've all done things," he counters, still too calm.
"How long?"
Knowing exactly what I'm asking, he admits, "Three days."
"My name." It's not a question.
A sudden wave of betrayal and anger surges through my limbs. Shoving at his chest, his arms fall away.
"I gave that to you," I shout. Backing away, I point to Sketch. "And you gave it to him."
For the first time in this room, emotion flares to life on Saint's face. His brow furrows and lips thin.
"You gave him my name. I suppose he should have me too!"
Rage gleaming in his eyes, he charges. I try to retreat, but he bends at the waist and puts a shoulder in my stomach.
"Put me down," I shout, fisting the back of his shirt.
Ass in the air, he carries me to the desk and drops me on top.
Shoving his body between my legs, I'm forced to open them. When he moves into my body, I lean back, taking my weight on my palms behind me. His hands plant on either side of me, his heaving chest a few inches from mine.
"Dante Santino Ruggiano," he grounds out.
"What?" I ask, confused.
"My name," he clarifies.
Furrowing my brow, I'm not sure what to do with that.
"Your past is documented in black and white, but mine floats in the shadows," he continues. "We aren't that different, Dahlia."
My mouth pops open, ready to object, but he has more to say.
"I killed my mother when I was fifteen years old," he confesses.
I snap my mouth shut.
"And my uncle, Felix's father," he says, before adding, "Then I hunted my father like an animal to slaughter him."
Biting my lip, I fight the wave of relief and pleasure at his words. We're both dark and damaged.
"Your father twisted you, tried to create his ultimate trophy." He lifts his right hand to my face.
"His doll," I whisper.
He nods. "Yes. Well, my uncle, Angelo, twisted me into his ultimate killer. A creature he's now lost control of."
Mimicking his act, I lift one shaking hand and place it to the side of his face. He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch.
"He thought you were for him, but you were always meant to be mine."
Remembering Sketch is still in the room, I tense at his declaration. Saint's eyes open with a lingering need for accession fogging them.
"I don't care about your sins," he says, "I have my own." His fingers flex against my scalp. "And quite honestly, I need your soul to be as dark and corrupted," he confesses. "It's the only way mine won't destroy you. I can't destroy you."
Tears fill my eyes, one blink setting them free.
"You're so fucking perfect, and I'm terrified of you," he admits, bringing his left hand to the other side of my face. "It's like my demons conjured you just to torment me and I'm scared they'll take you away."
"You resurrected all my demons and ghosts," I sniff. "He'll come for me."
"I hope so," he growls. "Because there isn't a god or devil who will save him from The Saint."
Mei
Standing naked in the master bathroom of Saint's Chicago penthouse, I stare into the large vanity mirror. From mid-thigh to the top of my wet head, I scan my reflection.
Light bruising on my thighs, evidence from the way Saint fucked me three nights ago. When we'd entered the rear of the car, a wave of relief washed over me. And the farther we drove away from the club, the more relaxed I'd felt. Then, Saint brought it all back in one question.
"Was it how rough he was being or just the act of watching?"
My mouth floods with saliva, butterflies riot in my belly, and I cross my legs to ease the throb at just the mention of Felix and the blonde.
"Perhaps it was all of it," Saint verbalizes the thought.
His hand clamps on my knee, pulling my legs apart. Gripping the hem of my dress, I try to keep it from riding up.
In a fluid motion, he slides from the seat next to me. Knees to the floor of the car, he moves between my legs, grabs my hands, and pulls them away from the skirt. The material slides over my bare thighs to the crease of my lap. With a wrist in each of his large hands, he secures my arms to the seat on both sides.
His eyes search my face, seeking an answer I'm hesitant to give.
Part of me wants to confess my history with watching men roughly fuck women, pleasuring myself later at the memories, and how much the way he takes everything from me makes my body zing to life. The other part wants to keep my mouth shut and not give him any more of myself.
The grin that spreads across his face and the familiar dark gleam in his eyes makes me squirm.
Saint presses his body closer and takes my chin in his hand.
"Have I mentioned how much I adore your little chin lifts and the challenge in your eyes," he divulges, and then his tongue swipes over my bottom lip. Gripping my chin tighter, he raises his head and demands, "Tell me what had your ass squirming back there."
Pressing my lips together, I refuse to answer.
"I have ways."
His words a low growl, he releases my body, only to shove both hands between my legs. The material of my dress rolls to my waist and I grab his wrists. Curling his fingers beneath my thighs, he tugs hard. My hands fly out, the left finding purchase on the door and the right slapping against the leather seat. When he jerks my ass to the edge of the seat, I dig my heels into the carpet and try to push back up.
Saint doesn't allow it.
"Tell me." He thrusts hard between my legs. "Is it the roughness?"
His eyes search mine, but still, I give him nothing.
"Very well," he states.
Releasing my thighs, he reaches between them and fists the crotch of my panties. Yanking them to the side, he uses the fingers of his free hand to slide through my wetness. A wide, cocky smile spreads across his face.
The asshole.
"And there's my defiant girl," he praises, slipping a finger inside me.
Tensing my thigh muscles, my hips jerk forward, wanting more. Then the car moves over a bump, reminding me we aren't alone.
I grab his wrist and glance around his body.
"Eyes on me," he orders.
I comply, but ground out, "Are you going to kill him after he watches?"
"Maybe," he grins.
My eyes widen, and I tense.
He chuckles before proceeding to fuck me most of the ride home.
Given that Frank was the one to drive us to the penthouse yesterday afternoon, I'm sure he didn't suffer the same fate as Arman.
Moving my gaze from my thighs over my stomach, breasts, and shoulders until I meet my own eyes, I swallow the lump of a million emotions.
Placing my hand on my stomach, I slowly glide it up my body, stopping to touch the purple hickey mark on my left breast. I close my eyes and recall the way I'd demanded he suck harder as I rode him last night.
Opening my lids and dropping my hand, I sweep another look over myself. As much as I wanted to hate everything, to hate him, I don't. Hell, the evidence of how much I'm thriving is staring back at me in the mirror. Eating regular full and mostly balanced meals, along with not adhering to my previous workout routine, has added a roundness to my hips, stomach, and breasts. My hair and skin are less dull and sullen. And while I've fought against the darkest part of myself, unleashing it on Arman over a week ago and just a few nights ago with Felix is the worst kind of addiction. I feel free. Not to mention how invigorating it is to embrace my dirty and often depraved desires knowing Saint won't be repulsed by them. He welcomes, even craves, them.
There's no warning knock before the bathroom door opens. Saint enters, prowling toward me. His eyes rake over my
bare body, pausing on the marks he left on my skin. I turn to face him, giving him the full view of his handiwork. The way his mouth twitches at each mark makes my clit tingle.
"You have," he begins, placing his hands on my hips, "two hours." His hands slip around and grip my ass, pulling my hips against him. "Can you be ready?"
I give a nod.
Moving one hand back around to my front, his finger slips past my lips to circle my clit. I fist the cotton covering his biceps and gasp.
His face drops to my neck. "I'm tempted to fuck you," he says, licking my skin and dipping his finger lower.
"I have to get ready.” My hands now at the waist of his pants, I unbutton and lower his zipper.
"Part of getting ready," he growls, walking me backward to the vanity, "will be for the evidence of my fucking you to be between your legs all night."
Then he shoves a finger inside me. The invasion and words cause my pussy to spasm.
Lifting me onto the vanity, I spread my legs wide and lean back onto my palms. Glancing down my body, I watch his finger move in and out. Pressing my hips upward, I meet the thrust of his hand. The tingle in my clit turns into a burn. I drop my head back, ready for the fire to consume my body.
"No," I whine when his hand disappears, only to soon moan, "Yes," when his cock enters me.
His fingers slide over my nipple, rubbing my own wetness into my skin before he leans down and takes the tip into his mouth.
A hand slaps to my lower back and the other between my shoulder blades as he wraps me in the cocoon of his arms. Propping my weight onto my palms, I push my hips out, giving him free access to piston faster and harder into me.
"Yes," I exclaim.
Releasing my nipple, his hands slide down under my ass. Squeezing, my ass cheeks spread and his thrusts grow punishing. He's doing exactly what he said he would do, making sure I feel him between my legs for the rest of the night. The friction and his intent cause my climax to claw its way along my inner thighs and over my belly.
"Tell me what you want, Mei," he demands, accentuating it with thrusts.
Lifting my head, I meet his eyes and exclaim, "I want to feel you between my thighs and in my pussy for the rest of the night."
Lifting my lower body off the vanity and holding my weight, he drives into me. My body jostles back and forth. His hip bones dig into my thighs. There's a hint of pain accompanying the pleasure, causing a second orgasm to suddenly rush through me. Roaring out his own release, he thrusts one last time before stilling inside me.
