Bad Saint (All The Pretty Things Trilogy Volume 1)

by Monica James

  Kazimir falls quite easily into the role of doting husband as his lips trail down my neck. My stomach roils, and I think I’m going to be sick.

  As the man walks past the hatch, he looks down at it but doesn’t bother probing further because I’m clearly a convincing actress. When he drags the ramp back onto his boat, he takes away my last chance at freedom.

  “Good girl,” Kazimir whispers into my ear, waving at the man who starts his boat and leaves me alone to deal with my lies. I watch with tears in my eyes as he sails off.

  The moment he’s out of sight, I shrug Kazimir off me and wipe my cheek and neck, wanting to erase his touch from my skin. He smirks in response. “I’ll reward you later…when everyone is asleep.” He accentuates his promise with a wink while I remain stoic, not wanting to clue him in on what I’m currently feeling inside.

  Disgust. Hopelessness. Betrayal. That’s just a start to how I feel. But I will ensure my efforts don’t go unrewarded. “I can’t wait,” I reply, batting my eyelashes because I will make sure this bastard lowers his guard, allowing me to get to that radio.

  That can wait because when Saint emerges, I have other matters to deal with. “Good, ангел.”

  “We had a deal,” I reply, not interested in small talk. And neither is he.

  “Yes, we did. Come on then.” He gestures with his head for me to follow.

  I do.

  I leave the two Russians up top as I follow Saint down the stairs. He casually takes a seat, indicating the floor is mine.

  Given the option of knowing it all is suddenly daunting, and I begin to pace. How much do I want to know? He’s shared tiny scraps of information, all of which have left me with nightmares. But knowing he won’t give me this opportunity again, I quash down my fears.

  “Why me?”

  Saint rocks back in his seat, the air thick with tension. “You were chosen because of your looks. Because of your background.”

  “Background?” I ask, confused.

  He nods. “No one will miss you when you’re gone,” he explains while I stop pacing.

  “My husband will!” I shout, annoyed that he believes he’s privy to what my relationship entails.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he replies coolly, crossing his legs and resting his ankle against his knee.

  “How dare you! You know nothing, nothing!” I shout, storming forward.

  “Stop yelling and ask your questions.” He remains unmoved by my emotion.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Russia.”

  Russia? I thought they smuggled people out of Russia, not in.

  His sharpness is hard to digest, but I continue. “Why?”

  “You’ve been sold to Aleksei Popov.”

  I blink once. There is so much wrong with that short sentence. “Sold?” I whisper because I’ve surely misheard him. But when he nods, I know that this is really happening. “Who is he?”

  He takes his time, which scares me. “He’s one of the most powerful, most feared men in Russia. His specialty is drugs, guns, and money.” Now his nickname of Boss makes sense because it appears that’s what he literally is.

  “Why does he want me?”

  “Because he likes to collect pretty things.”

  I flinch, turning my cheek, never feeling dirtier. “So I’m his…plaything?”

  Saint’s shoulders rise and fall. “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand. Who sold me?” I cry, dropping to my knees in front of him, begging he end this turmoil once and for all. “Please, tell me.”

  Saint sighs, the first sign of emotion surfacing. He reaches forward and sweeps the hair from my brow. I hate myself because his touch, his kindness are what I crave, and I lean into him, wanting him to take away this pain. But what he says next just slashes at the already gaping wound. “Your husband.”

  “What?” His touch suddenly feels like acid because I’ve been burned. I immediately recoil. “No. No,” I repeat, shaking my head wildly. “You lie.”

  “No, I don’t. Your husband sold you to Popov because he’s a worthless piece of shit. You were always a pawn, his get out of jail for free card,” he presses, but I cover my ears, unable to listen to the deceit spilling from his lips.

  “Willow—” When he attempts to touch me once again, I shrink back, falling onto my ass.

  “Stop it!” I scream, my body shuddering. “I don’t want to hear any more.” Images of Saint beating Drew viciously assault me, and I remember thinking it seemed personal at the time. Could I have been right?

  I’m drowning in tears as they flow freely with no end in sight. There must be some mistake. I know Drew. He would never do what Saint is proposing. He’s my husband, for god’s sake! What sort of monster would do that to his wife?

  “Le-leave,” I whimper, choking on my stilted breaths, thumping my fist against the floor. This can’t be happening.

  Saint comes to a slow stand, respecting my wishes. “I would never lie to you. Not about this.”

  “I hate you,” I snarl, spit and tears running down my downturned chin. How dare he say such filth about Drew?

  His trademark scent engulfs me, and I realize the only person I hate is myself. Dropping to a squat, he lifts my chin with a finger, pinning me with those eyes. “You wish that you did…but you don’t.”

  “Fuck you,” I spit, ripping from his hold. He doesn’t know me.

  I brace for punishment, but I receive a different sort of torture. Saint walks up the stairs, leaving me alone with this giant hole in my chest.

  Only when I’m shrouded in darkness do I allow my guard to drop and weep ugly tears. I lie down on the cool floor and curl myself into a ball. There must be some mistake, a different sort of torture. Not physical, but emotional. Saint wanted to break me, but that doesn’t make any sense.

  I did what he wanted.

  Nothing makes any sense anymore.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, closing myself off from this anguish because if what Saint says is true…then I truly am alone in this world.

  I wake to someone sucking my big toe. Surely, there must be some mistake.

  My eyes snap open, and when I see a bald dome at my feet, I know there is no mistake. I lower my head to the floor, muting my voiceless screams by shoving my fist into my mouth.

  I passed out after Saint delivered the worst news of my life. My mind clearly needed to shut off from reality. I still don’t know what to believe. And now I wake to this—to Kazimir sucking my toe.

  Gathering my courage, I peer around to see Saint passed out on his stomach on the lounge he once tied me to with a half-empty bottle of vodka hanging limply from his fingers. The other Russian sits slumped in a chair, snoring softly.

  That just leaves me alone with Kazimir, who is clearly making good on his word to pay me back later when everyone is asleep. I focus on anything other than his lips kissing a trail from the top of my foot to over my ankle. He swirls his tongue along the bony ridge before licking his way upward.

  I remain perfectly still because this is what I wanted—to exploit the weakest link—but with the way he’s slithering up my body, I can’t help but feel like I’m the one who’s being exploited. My legs tremble, and my stomach roils, wanting to be sick.

  When I feel his wet tongue slurp at my inner thigh, I can’t pretend any longer. I shoot up, cupping his cheeks. His beard is coarse beneath my fingers. “Upstairs,” I whisper with doe eyes, hoping he falls for the innocent act.

  His attention flicks back and forth between Saint and his other comrade, weighing the options, but he finally agrees. “Okay.”

  I release him as the need to flee is more than overwhelming. He comes to a stand, ensuring to be quiet. I do the same.

  I take one final look at Saint because regardless if what he told me is true or not, I need to get the hell off this boat. I need to look Drew in the eyes and ask him if he did what Saint said he did. Tears sting, but I quickly wipe them away.

  Kazimir opens the hatch slowl
y, waving me to follow. It’s pitch black out, but the sliver of moon provides all the light I need. I ensure to close the hatch, desperate to place something on top of it so if one of my captors’ wake, they can’t follow.

  But I don’t have time to do anything because the moment we’re alone, Kazimir is on me, his chest pressed to my back as he fondles my breasts and bites my neck. I fight my instinct to strike back and headbutt him, and instead, I go lax, eyes focused on the radio.

  He speaks to me in Russian as I walk us deliberately toward the helm. He pinches my nipples as I’m still in my bathing suit and rubs his hard-on against my ass. I detach myself from my body as I continue leading us toward the radio.

  “I want to fuck,” he says into my ear, sucking the side of my neck. My mouth gapes open as I silently dry retch, but I just hum in response.

  When I’m close enough, I know what I have to do. Bending forward, I grab the railing and position my ass high in the air. The radio is within reach, but I can’t make a reach for it until this asshole is knocked out cold.

  “Fuck me,” I purr, but the tremble to my tone gives away my nerves.

  Kazimir either doesn’t notice or care. His pants hit the deck before I hear him spit in what I’m guessing is his hand. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my screams. When a distinctive friction noise is heard, it’s evident he’s working himself up and down, intent on fulfilling my request.

  He cups my ass, grunting, his hand still moving frantically. I desperately search for a weapon, and when I see it, I don’t hesitate. Kazimir violently forces my bottoms aside, exposing me to him. “Your pink pussy is heaven.” He runs his rough finger along my entrance, hissing low.

  I am horrified, but I use that to dive for the fire extinguisher, and in one smooth motion, I spin around and strike out, connecting with Kazimir’s temple.

  My heart is in my throat as I watch Kazimir’s eyes widen in utter shock before he slumps to the deck with his disgusting dick still in hand. I hold the fire extinguisher high, as I’m expecting him to come back to life like some bad horror movie, but he doesn’t move.

  His cock soon deflates and flops lifelessly against his leg.

  Gulping in mouthfuls of air, I drop the extinguisher and cry in relief, brushing back my hair. But I’m not done. Jumping over Kazimir’s unmoving body, I sink to my knees and unhook the fist mic, fiddling frantically with the dials. “Hello? Hello? Can anybody hear me?” I hysterically say into the mic.

  All I get is static in response.

  I continue turning the dials, hoping for some kind of a response. “Come on!” I cry, squeezing the button on the mic, refusing to give up.

  “Hello? Help me, please. I’ve been kidnapped.” The radio frequency continues cackling at my expense. This is hopeless.

  Peering into the heavens, I pray for a miracle. I beg that for once, the universe cuts me some slack. A tear scores my cheek because if this doesn’t work, I have just signed my own death warrant.

  Ripping open the white chest, I see that I was right as inside is a life vest and some flares. If this doesn’t work, then this will have to be my Plan B. Just as I’m about to slip the vest over my head, I hear it…a sign from above.

  “Hello?”

  I sob in response as I dive for the fist mic. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the male voice says through the static. The connection isn’t great, but all that matters is that I’ve made contact. “What are your coordinates?”

  “I don’t know,” I say in a rushed breath. “I’ve been kidnapped. My name is Willow Shaw. I’m an American. Please help me.”

  I slump to the floor, tears streaming down my cheeks. I did it. I’m saved. Now that that realization hits, I begin to tremble uncontrollably. The past six days crash into me, and I struggle to breathe.

  “What is the name of your vessel?”

  “I-I d-don’t kn-know,” I stutter, measuring my breathing so I can answer his questions. “All I know is that we’re headed for Russia. Aleksei—” The line suddenly goes dead.

  Fear overthrows me, and I desperately spring into action, turning the dials, but it’s useless. “No!” I sob, searching the radio for signs of why it just died. “Hello?” The fist mic button echoes uselessly.

  Just as I’m about to try again, a darkness shadows me, revealing the reason my communication to the outside world has just been severed.

  I hastily shrink backward, hiding behind the helm because before me stands Saint, and he’s holding the cables he tore from the radio in his hand. He is fucking furious. “You have no…no idea what you’ve just done.”

  There is a fraction of calm, but it’s the calm before the storm.

  He lunges forward, reaching for my legs, but I kick out hysterically, screaming at the top of my lungs as I attempt to curl myself into a small ball. “No!”

  But it’s useless as he drops to a squat and grips my ankle. I lash out, violently fighting, hoping the small space I’m hidden in will protect me, but nothing will protect me from the wrath of Saint. I kick my legs, writhing and attempting to escape, but Saint yanks me forward, uncaring he’ll probably decapitate me in the process.

  I search for anything to grab onto, but the wheel is out of my reach, and I fall onto my back, my head slamming onto the hard, wooden decking. He drags me out as I scramble to anchor myself, my fingernails bending backward as they claw uselessly at the floor. He simply shoves Kazimir aside with his boot and continues hauling me like a sack of potatoes.

  “I’m sorry!” I sob, but it’s too late. He doesn’t want my apologies. He’s out for blood.

  I squirm madly, kicking and thrashing about, but Saint only tightens his hold around my ankle. I frantically search for a weapon, but the world is upside down—a perfect analogy for my life right now.

  When we reach the stairs, he doesn’t stop, and each bump of the step causes my head to bang against the hard wood. I twist onto my stomach, attempting to reach out to grab the railing, but Saint pulls me roughly, and I let go, afraid he’ll tear me into two.

  When I’m at the bottom of the stairs, he lets me go, roaring loudly and punching what sounds like the wall. I immediately scamper for the lounge, curling my knees toward my chest as I sob hysterically, rocking. Saint slams the first-aid kit into the Russian’s chest, screaming in Russian.

  I assume he’s just told him what I’ve done.

  The Russian snarls, advancing forward with his fist raised. I cower, whimpering, awaiting the blow. But it never comes.

  “Don’t you fucking touch her!” Saint bellows. I’m too lost to even digest why that is.

  Footsteps dart up the stairs, and all I can think is what comes next.

  My body is vibrating violently, and my sobs are robbing me of breath. This is it. He’s finally going to kill me. For a split second, I believed I had actually done it. That I was free.

  “I have tried to be nice, ангел, so why do you force my hand? Do you want me to chain you up like a dog? Is that it?”

  I just weep in response.

  I can hear him pacing, clearly grappling with what to do next. “Kneel,” he finally commands.

  I’m too broken to object, so I unfold myself and quickly obey.

  My eyes are cast downward as I can’t look at him. I’m afraid. His staggered breathing reveals his rage.

  “Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you break?” he screams, infuriated. “Don’t you understand…this cruelness is the only kindness I can show you. I can’t deliver you to him with you behaving this way. He will…” He abruptly stops speaking.

  It seems he wants to apologize, but I don’t know what he’s seeking absolution for until I hear him unbuckling his belt. I squeeze my eyes shut, shivering, awaiting my punishment.

  A hiss slicing through the air is what I hear before I feel him whip me. It still doesn’t prepare me for the agony which has my mouth bursting open, but my scream has gone into hiding, and all that leaves me is a pained grunt.

  He st
rikes me once again, and as the belt comes down across my ass, the impact has my body whiplashing forward. Tears leak from my eyes. “I’m sorry!” I sob, but it’s too late for apologies.

  Whack.

  Each crack rattles my core.

  Spittle and tears coat my face as I choke on my raspy breaths. When he hits me again, it’s across my lower back. “Please stop.” The pain is sharp. The sting is punishing. But I know this is a tickle compared to what Saint could do to me.

  “You have to learn.”

  Whack.

  “You will listen.”

  Whack.

  He continues whipping me until I can no longer feel my body as I’ve detached myself from this plane. When he hits me across my ass, I slump forward, begging he stops.

  “Get up,” he pants, his tone filled with irritation.

  But I can’t.

  My entire body is broken. “No…more. I’ll be-behave,” I whisper, weeping.

  “I wish I could believe you.”

  Whack.

  It doesn’t matter what position I’m in, Saint won’t stop until he’s satisfied I’ve learned my lesson.

  “I’m so-sorry,” I stutter, suppressing my absolute suffering as this is the only way to make him stop.

  “Who do you belong to?” he asks, breathless and manic.

  “You.” And the air fills with victory.

  I want to cut out my own tongue for surrendering, but I can’t take anymore.

  He uses his foot to part my legs slightly as he coaxes my ankles apart. I wonder why. My question is answered soon enough. When he hits me across the ass, with a lot less force this time, it’s quite low and skims my sex. It vibrates all the way to my core. I shudder involuntarily, and my nipples instantly pearl. When he does it again, the flick is somehow able to strike me in a way that it feels like he’s just hit me against my center. I whimper, biting my lip.

  What in the actual fuck?

  My cheeks burst into flames because in some perverse way, just how when he spanked me, this feels good. I am disgusting. I deserve every blow he gives me. But this is so taboo; the immorality of it has me wanting more.

  My body has suffered countless strikes. Each time he’s brought down his belt, a whoosh of air leaves him, and he’s left breathless. I’d like to think he’s not getting off on punishing me, but history proves otherwise.