Bad Saint (All The Pretty Things Trilogy Volume 1)

by Monica James

  After three attempts, I manage to grab the rope. But now that I have it, the thought of scaling down it leaves me with sweaty palms. I have no idea how the right way to do this is, but I count to five, breathe in and out, then wrap one leg around the rope. My other foot is still perched against the small platform of the hut, but I slowly push off, yelping as I attempt to climb down.

  “Don’t look down,” I chant over and over, but it’s hard not to because I need to know how many feet separate me and death.

  I hang, suspended in midair as I shimmy down the rope, inch by inch. My sweaty hands provide no grip, and I begin to slip. That is the kick in the ass I need to hurry my pace and scramble down until I’m low enough to jump to the ground.

  I drop like a sack of potatoes, grunting on impact as the twigs and rocks roughly break my fall. I commando roll and end up slamming into a tree. Brushing myself off, I look from left to right, unsure exactly which way we came from.

  When I see a purple flowering bush, I remember passing it on the way, so I hobble toward it, ignoring the small rocks biting into the soles of my feet. Although I am almost certain we came this way, I decide to leave a trail, like Hansel and Gretel for Saint.

  My dress is ruined anyway, so I tear the neckline, ripping the fabric into small shreds to use as my breadcrumbs. I tie what’s left of the ruined dress at the waist in a tight bow. My bra is all that’s covering my top half. If this was Milan, I could parade this on the runway, but here, it only confirms my desperate need to find some clothes.

  I secure a piece of my dress to a stem of the flowering bush and continue on my way, stopping every so often to tie some fabric onto a tree branch or trunk, leaving a clear path for Saint so he’s able to trace my steps.

  After a few minutes, I hear the crashing of waves, and a sense of accomplishment overcomes me. I’m proud of myself for being able to navigate through this maze. But I can pat myself on the back later because when I push through the dense foliage and see the water, I half run, half waddle toward it. The crispness feels incredible as I wade in the water, and when I’m about knee deep, I squat and relieve my bladder.

  This is not ideal, but it’s the best I’m going to get seeing as there are no bathrooms. I sigh in relief, but that’s soon replaced by a yelp when something nudges my back. Images of being ripped apart by Jaws has me screaming like a banshee and running for the shore faster than the wind.

  Breathless and thankful I’m not floating in a pool of blood, I turn around to ensure whatever touched me hasn’t followed, but what I see has me rubbing my eyes to confirm I’m not seeing things. I’m not. Floating feet away is the waterproof box that contained my clothes and toiletries. Saint was right. I wonder what else will wash up on shore.

  Running toward it, I drag it out of the water, relieved I will be able to change clothes, but more importantly, brush my teeth. Once it’s far away from the shoreline, I drop to my knees and throw open the lid. I cry out when I see my clothes and toiletries are inside. A black backpack which I assume contains Saint’s clothes is also inside.

  Saint’s sudoku book and the leather-bound journal I saw him writing in sits in the open bag. Curiosity has me running my fingers over the leather because this innocent book may be privy to Saint’s most protected thoughts. I should respect his privacy, but in the end, my snooping wins out.

  Just as I open it to the first page, however, all prying comes to a screeching halt.

  “I heard you scream,” Saint pants as he emerges from the trees. I quickly slam the journal shut, peering up at him. He’s covered in sweat and dirt.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, wondering if he ran to find me. His sticky appearance certainly hints that. “I was going to the bathroom in the water when I felt something nudge me. I thought it was a shark, but it wasn’t. It was this.”

  Saint’s attention drops to the box in front of me. I’m about to reveal the good news that his beloved sudoku book survived, but it’s clear that doesn’t matter. He is furious. “I told you to stay put.”

  “Excuse me?” I gasp, coming to a slow stand. “I left you a trail on where to find me.”

  “And what if I was going another way?”

  “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Like hell, I can’t,” he rebukes, storming forward.

  Fuck him and his arrogance. I’ve had enough. “I’m no longer your prisoner. We’re both stranded here.”

  “Thanks to you,” he spits, coming to a sudden stop a few feet away from me. His nostrils flare, and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

  “So, what? You’d rather I just submitted to you? Is that it?”

  “It would have been a lot easier,” he counters, running his fingers through his snarled hair.

  “Easier for you maybe, but I told you I don’t give up. I would rather die than be someone’s plaything.” I deadpan him.

  He returns the glower. “If you had just listened, none of this would have happened.”

  He has some nerve. “Well, if you hadn’t kidnapped me, we wouldn’t be here, shipwrecked, god knows where!” I refuse to shoulder the blame. “But now, we’re both stuck with one another!”

  He rushes forward, gripping my bicep and dragging me inches from his face. I fight to break free, but his anger is toxic and potent. “That may be true,” he snarls, his eyes pinning me to the spot I stand, “but make no mistake, you will do what I tell you. Nothing has changed.”

  “Everything has changed,” I bark, ripping free from his hold. “You can’t stand not being in control, can you?” The truth slaps me in the face because that’s what this is about. Saint needs control. And he’s never had that over me. I infuriate him because I won’t buckle. But more importantly, he doesn’t scare me. And he hates it.

  “I refuse to die on this fucking island with you! So stop being such a stubborn jackass and let’s work together so we can figure out a way to get off it. You can go back to whatever life you led and forget the day we met. And I plan on doing the same.”

  I hope he sees reason. But that’s just wishful thinking.

  “If you really believe that, then you’re more naïve than I thought.”

  “Fuck you,” I spit, shoving him in the chest. “You know nothing about me.”

  He stumbles backward as I’ve caught him off guard but soon recovers. “I know that no matter what you say, you believe me.”

  “You’re hardly credible,” I reply, but my wavering tone hints at my nerves. He’s referring to Drew. But I refuse to show weakness. “So you can say whatever you want, but I plan on returning to my life, to my husband. And you can go back to kidnapping and murdering for fun.”

  That comment was supposed to hurt him, but when he laughs, it seems to have had the opposite effect. “Your life of what? Changing the world, parading around in ridiculous clothes as you shake your ass on the catwalk? That sounds very fulfilling.”

  I blink once. “Are you seriously judging me? At least I don’t kill people for a living!”

  Saint inhales sharply. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Things aren’t always black and white, but I don’t expect someone like you to understand that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I place my hands on my hips, furious. How dare he judge me.

  “It means you have no idea what’s really going on here. It means your husband,” he snarls, and a phrase has never sounded dirtier, “is the reason you’re here. With me. You wish to return to your perfect life. Go ahead.” He spreads his arms out wide. “But know that the man you lie beside is the man who…”

  He pauses as if regretting his words.

  “Go on then! Who what?” I scream, calling his bluff. I wish I hadn’t. And I wish I’d used a different phrase.

  “Who sold you in a game of poker!” he exclaims. I’m unable to digest what he just said without wanting to be sick. “That’s right. Your precious husband lost a game of poker to Popov, and when he couldn’t pay his dues because he lost his fortune to hookers, gambl
ing, and bad investments, he had to pay up in another way.”

  “You lie.” I stumble backward, shaking my head firmly. Drew never flaunted his money, and that was one of the many things I liked about him. Could it be because he never had any money to flaunt?

  But it seems now that Saint has started, he can’t stop. “I was there. I saw it all. I am Popov’s right-hand man, remember?” he spits, eyes narrowed as he knows I’ve judged him based on that fact. I now know why watching Saint beat Drew felt personal—it was. “Your husband promised Popov an American girl in exchange for his debt to be cleared. He owed a quarter of a million dollars. It was the only way he could leave Russia with his life intact.”

  “Stop it,” I whimper, covering my ears. But Saint storms over, refusing me mercy as he rips my hands free. I wrestle with him, trying to break free, but he holds my wrists tight.

  “Popov wanted a docile, pretty girl. Someone obedient. Someone he could dominate. Your husband clearly didn’t do his homework. But I suppose he got one thing right.” I dare not ask what that thing is.

  “He was the one who organized the hit. Think about it,” he says, tightening his hold as I writhe like a caged animal. I want to murder him with my bare hands. “How did we know where to find you? At that precise time? Standing on that terrace?”

  “Why don’t you go downstairs and wait for me on the terrace? The view is something else.”

  Drew’s words play on repeat because that’s why I was standing out there when I was kidnapped. He told me to wait for him there.

  Nausea rises, and tears sting my eyes.

  “Don’t you think your fairy-tale meeting was a little too convenient?” he poses, but no, I refuse to allow him to taint my love.

  “Nice story,” I say, feigning courage. “But why did he marry me? He could have just organized for you to kidnap me anywhere. Why go through the effort of marrying me?” I am confident Saint’s lies will unravel, but I should know by now that Saint is always two steps ahead.

  “He took out a life insurance policy on you,” he states without pause. “With you kidnapped and presumed dead, he would get a lot of money. You cleared his debt with Popov, but you’ve also made him a rich man again. He used you…and you fell for it.” He seems disgusted with me. That makes two of us.

  The fight in me dies, and I doubt it will return ever again.

  “So don’t you dare judge me because at least I can admit what I am,” he says, releasing me. I instantly sag forward, afraid my legs won’t hold me up. “As for you, you can live in your fantasy world, but sooner or later, reality will catch up to you. It always does.” Regret swarms him, but I disregard it because this man is incapable of such a human emotion.

  A tear rolls down my cheek as I am broken. My heart, spirit, everything I thought I was is now shattered forever. I watch as he marches away from me and rips open the first-aid kit. Shrinking back, I automatically assume he’s going to shoot me dead. But he doesn’t.

  He pockets the knife and goes to turn. “I’m going to find us some food,” he explains, exhausted, while I hold back my ugly tears. “There’s a pond filled with rainwater just past the hut if you want to bathe.”

  I watch as he ventures the way he came, leaving me alone with a secret so heavy, I don’t know how to deal with it by myself. He just destroyed me in one breath, and in another, he offered me kindness. This man is my tormentor, but by the same token, he’s also the only person who can give me the answers I so desperately seek.

  But I have them now. The truth to why I was kidnapped. To why I’m here. The truth should set you free. But it hasn’t. All it’s done is leave me wishing Saint had left me to drown.

  She now knows the truth, the truth I was trying so hard to keep from her because the look in her eyes will haunt me forever. I can only offer her pain, but I’m a sick bastard who gets off on her tears because they mean I’m one step closer to breaking her, to getting Zoey back…

  Day 11

  I CAN’T SLEEP, and that’s not because I’m not tired. I’m utterly exhausted, but I’m way past being able to slip into a comatose state and forget the past eleven days.

  Yesterday, after Saint revealed the truth, I staggered to the hut, needing time to process everything he revealed. Even though it seems so farfetched, I can’t deny the logic. I hate that it makes sense because it means I married a lying asshole who never loved me at all. All I was to him was a pawn, his get out of jail for free card.

  I was thankful Saint didn’t come find me because I needed time alone. So I laid on the rough, wooden floor and stared up at the leafy ceiling, wondering what to do now. When the sun set and gave way to the full moon, I was thankful for the darkness as it seemed easier to accept the deceit.

  My stomach growled, and my throat was parched, but the thought of consuming anything made my belly turn.

  Well into the early hours of the morning, the bugs and mosquitos buzz around me, having a field day biting me any chance they get. Slapping my arm, I sit upright, brushing back my hair with a sigh.

  I’m restless, hungry, tired, and nothing I do alleviates my agitation. I feel like hitting something because each time I think about what Saint said, my temper seems to surge. He showed no remorse and even made me feel like some pathetic airhead for not seeing through Drew’s lies.

  The knife against my breast burns as if it’s a sign of what I can do to claim back a small piece of my soul. If it wasn’t for Saint, I wouldn’t be here. Yes, Drew may have orchestrated this entire thing, but Saint didn’t have to agree to it. He could have told Popov what a lowlife psychopath he was and gotten a new job.

  But he has no qualms about being a hitman. Kidnapping and murdering come naturally to him, it seems. Drew isn’t here, but Saint is. And I have every intention of making him pay for what he did.

  I spring up before I chicken out, adrenaline coursing through me as I leap over the edge of the hut and reach for the rope. The fact I can’t see makes my descent a little easier, but I don’t take as long this time because I am amped on revenge.

  Strips of my dress catch in the light breeze, signaling the direction of the shore. I have no idea if Saint is here, but I work on pure instinct. Reaching for the Swiss blade in my bra, I charge through the foliage, ignoring the excruciating pain in my feet because that can’t compare to the agony within.

  I know he will probably disarm me before I get within five feet of him, but being in control drives me forward. Just as I storm out from between the trees, ready to tackle Saint where he hopefully sleeps, a sight I was not expecting to see flashes before me.

  I freeze because seeing Saint waist deep in water, the full moon illuminating his stature, simmers my fury. Standing still with his face tipped toward the heavens, he skims the water with the tips of his fingers. Something about him appears so pensive.

  His angel wings come alive under the moonlight, reminding me of the first time I saw them. I was as mesmerized then as I am now. Someone who delivers such punishment to people bearing something so angelic seems so wrong.

  But it adds to the mystery of who Saint is. I may know why Drew did what he did, but I’m still no closer to figuring out what’s in it for Saint. He’s not doing it for the money. But I think it’s safe to say he’s doing it for Zoey.

  So my next question is, who is Zoey?

  Sneaking up on him while he’s unarmed suddenly feels so wrong, so I decide to bench my vengeance for the moment and try to get some sleep. However, what I see next is confirmation I may not move from this spot ever again.

  Even though what I’m witnessing is crystal clear, it’s still hard to believe. But there is no mistaking the sight of Saint’s left hand dipping into the water as he strokes himself. It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, so to speak, but his tempo soon increases.

  Through the still night, I can hear his husky inhalations and the sloshing of water as he pleasures himself. I am transfixed, hooked on the utterly intoxicating and completely taboo sight. I should turn
around because that’s what any respectable woman would do.

  But my morality was questioned the first moment Saint laid his hands on me, and I liked it…a lot.

  I’m shrouded by the shadow of the trees, so I remain hidden, unable to look away as Saint continues to stroke his shaft, his muscles rippling as his rhythm builds. Not being able to see is a potent wickedness as my curious mind begins to conjure up images of what Saint would look like.

  The thought of his cock has a wetness gathering between my legs, and I instantly squeeze my thighs together, ashamed, but the friction only makes it worse. Watching with bated breath, I’m hypnotized by the sway of his back as he rocks with the rhythm of his hand.

  The sound of his strokes intensifies, only adding to the fire burning within me. I imagine the slickness of his skin combined with the hardness of his shaft. I am certainly no expert on the matter as I can count on one hand how many cocks I’ve seen in the flesh, but the thought of Saint’s has a whimper escaping.

  A groan slips past his lips as he arches his head farther back, the slapping of his flesh combined with the spattering of water indicating he’s close. This rugged beast takes what he wants. His arm works frantically, and I lean forward, desperate for a closer look.

  It seems to go on for minutes, and my mind wanders to this man’s stamina. I’ve seen him kill a roomful of men without breaking a sweat. He is commanding, strong, and in control. And watching him jerk himself off is no different.

  The moon is my beacon, highlighting Saint in all his glory as his body tightens before a low moan fills the air and his back bows. The moan soon turns into a hoarse growl as he curses in Russian. The sound has me biting the inside of my cheek, my knees buckling at the sight of him coming.

  That was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t even see the whole thing. But the mystery is what turned me on and has my arousal trickling down the inside of my thigh.