by J, Bella
This time, he glanced over his shoulder, his jaw ticking under the dark five o’clock shadow. “Milana Katarina,” he murmured before walking off without saying another word.
Jesus. Was that my real name? Did Saint really know who I was and who my real family was?
All my life, all I wanted was to know the real me, where I came from, and who my real parents were. It was something most kids in the system always wanted to know, something that haunted us every day of our lives. And now, it seemed like I finally came across someone who could give me the answers I’d always wanted. Too bad that someone had to be the devil.
* * *
The black leggings and white shirt were ten times more comfortable than the dress they made me wear. Elena didn’t leave me any shoes, but I had no problem walking around barefoot, especially with the cozy temperature of the cabin.
Elena and James sat on the other side of the plane, deep in conversation. I wondered how old Elena was. She didn’t seem a day older than forty, yet I heard Saint calling her his aunt. James seemed younger, though, even younger than Saint, but they were about the same height. Same build.
Without looking down at Saint, I brushed past to take my seat across from him just as a stewardess I had never noticed before placed a plate of food in front of me. She smiled in Saint’s direction, her red lips curved seductively. “Stuffed lamb breast with lemon and ricotta.”
I glanced at the plate. “I…uh—”
Saint grabbed it and shoved it back into her hands. “I asked for the stuffed chicken breast. Not the lamb.”
“Sir—”
“The lady doesn’t eat red meat. I specifically asked for chicken.”
She all but swallowed her smile, her cheeks a panicked pink. “I’m sorry, Mr. Saint.”
“Just get the damn chicken.”
“Yes, Mr. Saint.”
“Oh,” he lifted his hand, “make sure you remove all your personal belongings once we land. You won’t be returning.”
The pink flush on her cheeks melted away, replaced with a sickly white. Her lips fell open, but he merely dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and she shut her mouth, rushing off in the other direction.
Shocked, I widened my eyes and blinked. “You didn’t have to fire her.”
“Of course, I did.” He sipped from his new glass.
“Why? Because she got the order wrong?”
“Because she didn’t listen. Because she couldn’t complete a task as simple as ordering the correct meal.”
“I still don’t think her mistake justifies you firing her.”
He placed his glass down on the table next to him. “Will the fact that I’ve fucked my stewardess countless times make you think otherwise?”
I gaped in disbelief and shook my head. “Oh, my God.”
“Will it?”
“No.” I answered, clipped, yet feeling flustered and uncomfortable. “I don’t give a shit about your sex life or who you’ve fucked. I don’t even know you.”
He placed his elbows on his knees, a shrewd look flashing in his blue eyes as he stared at me. “So, if I told you the rope you held in your hands earlier is the same rope I tied her with in the shower, it won’t make any difference to you?”
Now I knew what the gold rings in the shower were for.
I shifted in my seat, never taking my eyes off him. It became increasingly clear what kind of man he was. A hunter. A sexual predator. The most dangerous sort.
“Is that why you took me?” I asked. “To turn me into a sex slave and sell me to some rich Arabic pervert named Abdul?”
His face went dark, his expression unreadable, until he burst out laughing. “Abdul?”
I frowned. “I’m glad you find it amusing.”
The rolling sound of his laughter continued, and I shifted as it faded to a snicker.
He wiped his fingers across his forehead. “No, Mila. I am not selling you as a sex slave to some Arabic pervert named Abdul.” His eyes narrowed as his expression closed up. “You are far more valuable than that.”
“You keep saying things like that. What does it mean? What do you really want with me?”
“All in due time, Mila.”
“Milana Katarina.”
His eyes flashed with warning.
“That’s my name, right? My real name?”
He sat back, rubbing his palms together, and my attention faltered from his sapphire eyes to his muscular hands, silken skin, and strong knuckles with symbols I didn’t recognize tattooed on each finger.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
“How do you know? How do you know who I am?”
He continued to rub his fists. “You ask too many questions.”
“You give too few answers.”
He scoffed. “How do the Americans put it? You’ve got balls talking to me the way you do after you saw me kill Brad without fucking blinking.”
I sat back, brushing my hair out of my face. “Something tells me if you wanted me dead, I would be.”
“Clever girl. It would be smart to remember that, though.”
I looked out the window. The sun was starting to peek out from the horizon, a picturesque clear view of the blue ocean stretching for miles and miles, nothing else in sight.
“What is it you want from me?”
“I told you, you’ll get your answers when you’re ready.”
Frustration got the better of me, and I pulled my hand through my hair. “For God’s sake, just tell me. Tell me why I’m here, what you want with me, and what you plan on doing to me.” My voice grew louder with every syllable, James and Elena both turning in our direction.
The heat on my cheeks made me realize I had to calm down. I had to keep control. It was the only thing he couldn’t take from me. Control. At least for now, anyway.
“Please, Saint,” I murmured, closing my eyes and hanging my head down. “What. Do you want. With me?”
Silence confined us both to the corner of the plane. It was heavy. Deafening. And it was slowly suffocating me. I needed answers. I needed to know because not knowing was far worse.
The recently unemployed stewardess came back with a new plate in hand, her presence merely adding to the discomfort of the moment. Now that I knew Saint had sex with her in the bathroom multiple times, I looked at her in a different light. Her blonde hair seemed more fake than it did half an hour ago, her striking blue eyes a shade only contact lenses could give. Why did I suddenly not like her? The thought of Saint firing her didn’t upset me quite as much as it had anymore.
The stewardess didn’t even look at Saint or me, her bottom lip trembling like she was about to burst into tears at any second. I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but Elena stepped up behind her with two glasses of champagne.
“Anyone for a glass of champagne?”
Saint grinned. “I’m sure Mila would love a glass.”
Air slipped through my teeth. “Champagne is a celebratory drink.”
“Indeed.” Saint took the glasses from her and held one out to me. “We have much to celebrate.”
I frowned in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Drink up. It’s just a glass of champagne. The best in the world, I might add.”
I chewed my lip, gazing at the perceived hazard which was Saint, sitting across from me in his expensive clothes, Rolex wristwatch, and poisonous grin.
“One glass, Mila,” Elena urged with a warm smile. “It’s delicious. It will compliment your meal.”
Reluctantly, I reached for the glass in Saint’s hand, and my fingers brushed against his. A gentle touch, a subtle spark, and I sucked in a breath, our eyes meeting. There was a wicked glint in the color of his irises, an unspoken darkness threatening to swallow me whole.
Without saying a word, I took the glass from him, and he tipped his toward me. “To our time together, Mila.”
I didn’t respond or humor him by pretending to toast back. I might have been from the wrong side of the tracks, but
I knew champagne was meant to be savored. Meant to be sipped. But I drank it all in one go—a show of defiance. I had to keep my wits about me and figure out how I was going to get away from him. Until then, I had to do my best not to let this man get under my skin.
Swallowing the last drop of champagne, I handed the glass back to Elena, glowering in Saint’s direction. He pulled his lips in a straight line. Those motherfucking textbook perfect lips, grinning like the Cheshire cat who had a belly full of secrets.
I was one of those secrets. He told me so. The question was, why?
9
Mila
I was no stranger to waking up to a skull-pounding hangover and a tongue that felt like it had been licking shards of glass. But this was different. My mind was hazy, disorientated, and those first few moments after waking, I remembered nothing. Everything was blank, my thoughts scattering.
I clutched fabric as I balled my fists and pushed myself up, my head as heavy as a goddamn wrecking ball. If it wasn’t attached to my body, it would have been rolling on the floor.
I placed a hand on my head, my face curtained with the wild mess of hair. “Jesus Christ.”
“You really have a foul mouth, Mila.”
“Jesus!” I yanked at the sheet and saw Saint sitting on an armchair, staring at me with his hands clutched in front of his face. Yup, everything was coming back to me now.
The hotel. The penthouse suite. The man with the perfect lips. Brad. The private jet.
Fuck.
“Where are we?”
He tapped a finger against the top of his other hand. “You’re safe.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Glancing down, I made sure I was still dressed then scurried around the bed like I would find some hidden clue between the sheets. God, I was so confused.
I flipped my hair back, and it literally felt like my brain was moving around inside my skull. “Where are we?”
“One of my estates.”
“One?” I slanted a brow.
“Yes. One.”
I narrowed my eyes. “We were on a plane.” My memories slowly returned. “We were on a plane, and you…I had champagne. Oh, my God.” I gaped. “Did you fucking roofie me?”
“You have a dirty mouth.” He didn’t even blink.
“Did you touch me?” I jumped off the bed and looked down my body, my arms, around to my ass, frantically searching for signs of some sordid shit that had been done to me.
“Trust me, I don’t need you to be passed out in order to touch you.” His words rolled off his lips seductively. Those damn lips kept demanding my attention, even with a hazy, post-roofied brain.
“Why did you drug me?”
“I had to make sure no one saw you being brought here.”
“And where is here, exactly?”
“My estate.”
“I recall you saying that, yes. I mean where is this estate of yours?”
He licked his lips. “Italy.”
I balked. “We’re in Italy?”
He nodded.
“Italy?”
“We’re in the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region of Italy.”
My eyes widened. “Say what?”
He smirked, amused by the fact that I would probably never be able to repeat that.
I held up my hand, trying to process what he just said. “We’re in Italy?” I glanced around. “We’re in Italy. I’m in Italy,” I muttered to myself. As I turned, I spotted a window with its shutters closed. I rushed toward it and tried to open the window, but it was locked, slivers of sunlight coming through the creases where the two shutters met. “Why are these locked?”
He got up, and I noticed the fresh, clean suit he was wearing. A black one this time. “For now, you are to stay inside and away from all windows.”
“I’m a prisoner?” I scoffed. “Of course, I’m a prisoner. For a second there I forgot how you shot and killed my friend in order to kidnap me.”
His dark brows furrowed in disapproval. The man was nothing but the epitome of perfection and power, proud and regal as if he owned the entire goddamn world. “I thought we established that Brad was not your friend?”
“In my head, he was, until you killed him.”
“If you ask me, I did you a fucking favor.”
“So, you’re allowed to have a filthy mouth, but I’m not?”
With a smirk, he moved toward me, slowly, taking one intimidating step at a time. I felt like goddamn prey, knowing it was cornered and seconds away from being devoured from head to toe.
My back hit the wall, forcing a rush of air from my lungs. His six-foot-three frame, hungry gaze, and perfect lips had me pressing my nails against the concrete behind me. Being five-foot-six, I had never felt small, but while he had me trapped between him and the wall, my lungs felt like I was being smothered.
He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look up. “You think I have a filthy mouth now? Wait until you feel it between your legs. I give a whole new meaning to the word filthy, my little segreto.”
I hated it. I hated how he so easily intimidated me, affecting me with his blatant sexual innuendos. The fucker kidnapped me. Did he really think I’d fall on my back and beg him to use me?
Inching away from the wall, my bare toes touching his Italian leather shoes, I looked up at him, determined to show every ounce of defiance I had pulsing through my veins. “Fuck. You.” I arched a brow. “How’s that for a filthy mouth?”
My heart raced like crazy, but I kept my expression stone as he bit his lip. I was sure the vein in my neck was about to explode, and the longer he stood there staring down at me, the harder it became to keep my composure from faltering.
His hand dropped from my chin, steel eyes holding me captive. “Be careful, segreto. You don’t want to make this too much fun for a man like me.”
“You mean a demented man?”
He leaned down and snarled, “A determined one.”
He stepped back, and I held my breath as we stared at each other, the tension between us on the verge of cracking.
“Get dressed and come to my office down the hall. We have much to discuss.”
“No shit.”
“And don’t try to do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Run.” An eyebrow lifted in warning. “Consider it a temporary leniency on my part by not locking you in this room. Do something stupid, and that leniency is no more.”
He turned, heading toward the door, but stopped. “And take a shower. You stink.”
The door slammed shut, echoing his very fucking dramatic exit.
“Fucker,” I muttered.
Flustered and a nervous wreck, I weaved fingers through my hair as I glanced around the room. Decorated with natural colors, the room was perfectly airy and open—besides the lack of an open window. The bed frame consisted of cream-colored upholstered leather, the winter white sheets ruffled from where I had lain. The headboard matched the frame, thick metallic curtains hanging down behind it, ceiling lamps connected to the corners of the bed with stainless steel chains. It was ultra-modern and eclectic, yet there was a touch of elegance with dark gray walls and a silver oval shaped mirror hanging above a side table. Of course, I wasn’t surprised to see more marble floors, as it seemed Saint really had a thing for marble.
Closet doors caught my attention, and I was surprised to find it filled with women’s clothing. Little less surprised that it was all in my size—even the shoes—since Saint seemed to be a creeper that way.
“You stink,” I mocked in a husky voice as I went through the vast selection of dresses, blouses, and skirts. I noticed there were no pants, not a single pair of jeans or leggings. I stepped back and placed my hands on my hips, huffing a strand of hair from my face.
Well, this sure was a step up from my wardrobe back home, which consisted of three pairs of jeans, two shorts, and five t-shirts I collected from rock concerts. The room was definitely an upgrade from the
crummy space I called a bedroom back in New York. I’d be stupid if I didn’t see all the luxuries that came along with my questionable kidnapping. What did he really want with me? And why did he treat me like a conquest, like I was an animal whose head he wanted hung on his study wall?
Screw that. I was not about to glam up with pretty clothes and expensive shoes, like a pig being fattened up just before being slaughtered.
Closing the closet doors, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, scrunching my hair to tame it a little. “That will do,” I said to myself and headed out of the room.
Just like the bedroom, the floors down the hall were made from the same marble, the walls a similar gray. It would have been dark if it weren’t for the skylights that lit the hall. The natural sunlight added a subtle shimmer to the flooring, a touch of elegance. If I had been here under different circumstances, I would have had a better appreciation for the blatant flaunting of money by a rich bastard who went around New York kidnapping girls and flying them off to Italy.
I ambled down the hall, my footsteps light within the silence. The door at the very end was my destination, as per instruction. I wondered how he could be so certain I wouldn’t take a chance and run. How he was so sure I wouldn’t attempt to escape.
My skull burned with a need to find a way out, but Saint had used the ultimate weapon to ensure I didn’t run just yet. The promise of answers. Maybe I would have been slightly more hesitant walking toward the door, but my need for answers had me putting one foot in front of the other. He said he’d give me answers, and I would do everything I could to keep him to his word. Even if I had to play him at his own game. Years of fending for myself, surviving the streets by doing what needed to be done, gave me an advantage. If Saint thought he had taken a girl who would crumble under the slightest pressure, he made a huge mistake taking me.
Once I reached the door, I was ready to knock when I caught my hand trembling. The fight in me refused to acknowledge the thick fear that coated my throat. Fear made you weak. Fear made you lose control, and that was what Saint wanted. For me to lose control so he could take it.
Out of sheer defiance, instead of knocking, I went for the doorknob and opened the door. Why would I stand outside in the hall like a servant waiting for permission to enter?