The Rise of Saint

by J, Bella

  A groan rumbled in the back of my throat as I let go of her nipple with a loud pop, my tongue already craving another touch.

  That was the moment a single tear escaped, slowly trickling down her cheek. One would think I’d be moved by her display of fear, sorrow, pain. But no. It only made me want to break her so much more.

  In time. Soon.

  I leaned my head to the side. “Take your clothes off and go take a fucking shower.” I grabbed her shoulders and nudged her to the side, but her foot got caught on the edge of the carpet, and she stumbled to the ground on all fours. If I was a man fueled by emotions and romance instead of driven by vengeance and justice, I’d be helping her back up. But I glowered down at her, more tears running down her face, and I felt no sympathy, no remorse. That was what years of harboring such a dark need for justice did to a man.

  “Remember what I told you, Mila.” I stalked toward her. “Tears turn me on.”

  “Stop.” A tear lapped into her mouth. “Please stop.”

  “Get up, take your motherfucking clothes off. And walk.” My lust had turned into a heated need that could easily morph into something darker, something cruel and unrelenting.

  Her arms almost buckled beneath her weight as she tried to push herself off the ground. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  I grabbed her elbow and jerked her upright, swinging her front against my chest. “Because I can.”

  Her whimpers turned into sobs, every crease on her forehead and pull of her lips contaminating her pretty face with trepidation. Was this all it took to intimidate her? To break her? Hopefully not.

  “Marcello—”

  “Saint,” I corrected her. “You call me Saint.”

  “Saint.” She could hardly take a breath. “You’re already getting what you want. I agreed to marry you. Don’t humiliate me even further.”

  I snickered with wicked amusement. “You think making you walk naked down this hall and taking a shower while I watch is to humiliate you?” I cupped her cheeks with both hands, my fingers wrapping down her jaw and over her ears. “It’s not.” I took a single step toward her, my leather shoes touching her naked toes. “It’s for my pleasure, segreto.”

  The whites of her eyes had turned red from crying, her tears already taking their toll on her body. There wasn’t a single trace left of the defiant woman who had boarded my plane, or the stubborn woman who found it impossible to obey an order. Slowly, I would turn her into putty, and I’d be the fucking mold—bending and shaping her to my will.

  She closed her eyes. “Please,” she continued to plead.

  “Shh,” I cooed, wiping at her lingering tears. “Now, take off your clothes, and do your motherfucking best to please your future husband.”

  11

  Mila

  It was gone. Years I spent creating walls and building a foundation no one could destroy. To not rely on others, to be dependent on no one but myself had always been the motivation that strengthened me. No matter what kind of shit-storm life decided to throw at me, I refused to let it knock me down. I fought. Through every tear and every laugh—through every heartbreak and all those lonely nights, I fucking bared my teeth and fought for my own survival.

  Years.

  And all it took was a few days with this man, and those walls came tumbling down, shaking the foundation and cracks splitting it in half. Years of facing troubles head-on, and here I was cowering away because of one encounter with the devil.

  The sliver of bravery I had up until this point was gone, and left in its place was a terrified girl who knew her life was no longer hers. All those nights of dreaming about one day finding my real family, hearing their heartbreaking story of how they had no choice but to give their baby away, disappeared along with my courage. For years, I had convinced myself their reasoning behind giving me up would be enough to redeem the loneliness and heartache their abandonment had caused me. But that wasn’t the case. They gave me up because of some fucking business transaction. And now, here I was, in the claws of the one man they had tried to hide me from. Marcello Saint Russo.

  He held my face in his palms, those malevolent eyes deceptively peaceful. Like the eye of a hurricane. No wind. No rain. No storm. But surrounded by chaos and followed by mayhem. Destruction was the only thing it left behind, leaving nothing it touched unruined. That was Saint. A deadly hurricane, and there was not a chance in hell I’d survive the storm.

  “Now,” he dragged his hands down my shoulders, his gaze following the movement as he slipped the tattered shirt down my arms, “I’ll help you with this. But the pants you need to take off on your own.” The torn fabric of my shirt fell around my feet, the soft ping of buttons hitting the floor sounded like gunshots going off right next to me.

  Chills ran up and down my back, my skin cold and damp as he traced his fingertips across my naked flesh. Every instinct demanded I beg, that I plead for him to stop. To let me go. To let me return to my life of poverty and fucked-up fantasies of one day finding my family. I’d always wanted to find them—but not like this. Right now, I’d gladly go through my entire life without knowing who my parents were as long as it meant I never had to see this man again.

  With an icy stare that made me shiver, he lifted a brow. “Are you going to defy me again? Make me do something much worse than forcing you to walk naked through my house?”

  Jesus, no.

  I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. You can do this, Mila. You’ve survived abusive men before. You can survive him as well. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t lose yourself to the fear.

  I wiped away my tears, forcing another deep rush of air down my lungs, steeling every bone in my body. Just because he had done a stellar job at scaring me did not mean I had to give in to the fear. There was no reason for me to hide, or to cower away. No reason for me to be afraid of what I needed to do in order to survive. If he wanted to break me, I’d make sure to give him a hard time doing it.

  Red-hot humiliation made it almost impossible for me to act, to do what I was told. But I bit down on my tongue, tasting my own blood as I slipped my fingers in the side of my pants.

  “Faster.” The tenor of his voice was hard, demanding. Cruel.

  I bent forward, pulling the leggings down to my ankles, tearing them from my feet one leg at a time. As I straightened, I made the mistake of looking at him, seeing the way he stared at me with nothing but hunger in his eyes. I had no idea blue eyes could turn so dark, so undeniably wicked. For a moment, I stopped breathing, his stare too intense. Too fierce. His entire demeanor was that of a hunter, a man who prepared himself for the slaughter…and I was the lamb he planned on bleeding to death.

  He shot me a ghost of a smile. “Panties, too.”

  My bottom lip trembled, and I shot my gaze up to the roof, desperately trying to swallow my tears. I will not break. I will not break.

  Saint started toward me. “Never make your husband wait. It’s considered disrespectful.”

  “So is forcing a woman to do something she doesn’t want to do.” If I was a smarter woman, I would have kept my mouth shut. But I wasn’t. I was a stupid, dumb, foolish girl about to be devoured by a beast who thought he had some twisted claim on me because of the blood running through my veins.

  His stare was too intense, and I couldn’t hold it any longer, diverting my eyes to the side. My heart raced at a thousand beats per minute, and I waited for him to retaliate, to reprimand and punish me. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained before me, unmoved, not saying a word, his overpowering presence intensified with his body so close to mine. Perspiration beaded on my chest, and the skin of my neck flushed as his scrutinizing gaze burned me, searing my flesh. The longer he stood there in silence, the more I hated it. The more I wanted him to curse and shout threats at me.

  I braved a glance at him and saw the way his eyes drifted up and down my body like I was a piece of art he didn’t quite understand, or even liked. Did he?

  A fleeting thought of self-doubt entered my mi
nd accompanied by an unwelcome feeling of not being good enough. Not being pretty enough for a man like Marcello Saint Russo. The man exuded excellence and perfection—and he probably settled for nothing less when it came to the women he bedded. Only the best was good enough for him. And me? I was far from that, far from perfect, a mere blip on the map of his perfect little world. But that didn’t matter. My self-doubt didn’t fucking matter, because to him, a woman like me didn’t matter. I was just an insignificant number on his to-do list that would put him one step closer to wherever the fuck he wanted to be.

  There was the distinct sound of a flick of a blade, and I felt cold steel lick the skin of my thigh. I closed my eyes, craning my neck back as I lifted my face to the ceiling, my heart desperately trying to claw up my throat.

  With a twist of his wrist, I gasped as my panties slipped down my legs to join the rest of my clothes around my feet.

  A tear fell down the side of my face, my gaze still focused on the coffered ceiling. Made of sunken panels accented by molding, it was like a work of art, and I tried my best to concentrate on the waffle-like pattern rather than the touch of his hands on my naked skin.

  He dragged a finger leisurely from my hip around the front of my thigh. My skin erupted in chills, his touch both teasing and tormenting me.

  Warm breath skidded across my neck. “Oh, Mila. What is this?” Cruel fingers tugged at the hair between my legs to a point of pain. I yelped, and my knees weakened, stumbling over my own two feet, and I reached up to grab his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall, our gazes locked. For a second, a mere moment, something other than fear twisted its way into my core—a heat that spread up my insides, all the way to my burning cheeks.

  Saint inched closer, our lips no more than a breath apart. I couldn’t move, the storm in his eyes holding me captive. It was raging, grueling, and whatever darkness lurked in him was desperate to get out and smother me in its sea of black.

  “This, Mila,” he tugged at the hair between my legs, “this has to go.”

  Ice smothered the temporary heat that evaporated as quickly as it appeared. “Why?” I swallowed.

  “We’re getting married.” His reply was nothing short of sarcasm with a hint of mocking surprise, as if I had just asked the world’s dumbest question.

  I bit my lip, doubting if I was brave enough to ask the question that was now burning like white-hot coals on the tip of my tongue. “You…we…” I stuttered, “you just need my signature on a marriage certificate. Nothing more. There’s no need to—”

  He grabbed the back of my neck, pinching his fingers into my spine. “I need to,” he spat out with clenched teeth. “And I fucking plan to. Now. Walk.”

  With a shove, he let go. My legs were weak, and I wasn’t sure how long it would be able to hold me up. Feeling fear to a point where your body weight felt like a burden to your own legs was excruciating.

  “Turn around and walk down that hall. I won’t ask again.” The sharp edge of his warning sliced through my skin and gnawed at my bones.

  A tear slipped from my cheek, and I watched as it lapped onto my panties, the torn fabric soaking it up. I held my breath while turning my back to him, shudders causing me to wrap my arms around my shoulders. One step at a time, I forced myself to move forward, my nakedness weighing like a cross on my back. I’d been naked in front of guys before, but I’d never felt uncomfortable in my own skin. All I wanted to do was cover myself with the first thing I could get my hands on. With every step, I felt his gaze burn into my flesh, scrutinizing every curve, every inch of skin, probably finding a hundred flaws that would displease a man like him. I was no runway model, a fact I was now painfully aware of.

  The marble beneath my feet was smooth, yet it felt like I was walking on thorns, on my way to be slaughtered. Every tear, every breath hurt. Every bone in my body hurt all because of the fear this man so expertly evoked.

  My feet touched the floor of the hall, and I heard his heavy footsteps behind me. They echoed with demand and dominion, making it impossible to ignore. I walked as close to the wall as possible in case I needed the support, my arm already reaching toward it just in case. Every step was followed by a tear, a silent whimper that tore through my soul, breaking me little by little. The humiliation alone caused me more pain than I ever had to endure before. Naked, helpless, and completely at a man’s mercy was even more cruel than spending days locked in a closet because your foster dad couldn’t stand the sight of your face.

  “Pick up the pace, Mila.” His voice was as sharp and threatening like the blade of a knife. “Look up and square those shoulders. A Russo wife faces the world and never walks around with her eyes downcast.”

  Vertigo seized control, the world around me rocking like a sinking ship, and I tripped over my own feet. A cry ripped from my throat as I stumbled forward hands first into the wall. “Please—”

  His hands wrapped around my waist from behind, and I couldn’t stop my weak body from leaning into him. “A Russo wife also never begs, not unless she’s begging her husband to use her,” he rasped against my ear. He pulled me from the wall and steadied me on my feet. “Now, get hold of yourself and move.”

  It took me a long minute to collect myself. A Russo wife. Two days ago, I was nothing but an orphan stray trying to survive the streets of New York. And now I was the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Italy, and about to be a Russo wife.

  But he was right. I had to pull my shit together, get a grip. My head was taking me in circles, and the fear of not knowing what would become of me was weakening me. In the end, it wouldn’t be Saint that broke me, but rather the fear he so easily provoked.

  My feet felt unsteady, but I stared at the bedroom door that was only a few feet away. The sooner I got there, and the sooner I did what he wanted, the sooner he could be done with me and just leave me the hell alone so I could cry, scream, vomit, and curse in goddamn peace. Alone.

  That few feet of distance between me and the bedroom door seemed like it never closed. Yet the second I stepped past the threshold, I breathed out in relief and scurried for the sheet that draped the bed. But Saint was right beside me as my fingers touched the silk sheet.

  “Do not test me. You’ll regret it.”

  He didn’t touch me. He didn’t have to. The weight of his warning was heavy in the tenor of his voice, and I had no choice but to obey. It was terrifying, the power he had over me. I didn’t think it was possible for a man to intimidate me the way he did.

  “Shower’s through there.” He pointed at one of the closed doors, and I hesitated before opening it, yet forced myself to keep my chin up.

  Black and white checkered tiles covered the floor of the bathroom, the walls a subtle shade of white. But what took my breath away was the glass wall behind the opulent free-standing bathtub, covered on the outside with thick vines, making it impossible to see through. It was stunning, the dark green plant shaping its way up the window, covering it completely as if trying to shield it. Protect it.

  I felt Saint behind me while I took in every corner of the luxury bathroom. He didn’t rush me, didn’t scold me, as if he knew I would need a moment to admire it. White towels rested on gold rails, the taps matching the color. Gold lampshades covered the lights and gave the modern bathroom a touch of vintage style, the perfect balance between old and new. I had never seen a bathroom so big, so exquisite, before. It was just my luck that the first time I stepped into a bathroom like this I had to be kidnapped and forced to marry some sadistic, power-hungry maniac.

  I noticed the open shower to my left, and my heart slammed to the soles of my feet. There were no doors, or shower curtains. Just a shower with two partial glass walls, and nothing but open space.

  In a last attempt to have him leave a little bit of my dignity intact, I turned to face him. “I’ll clean up. You don’t have to stay and watch.”

  Without saying a word, he mere nodded toward the shower, and I knew he was hellbent on humiliating me as much as possible. It w
as more proof of how fucking twisted he really was. He enjoyed every second of this, every moment. It was nothing but a game to him. All he needed was for me to marry him, and this little charade of his, making me walk naked and forcing me to take a shower while he watched, was all for his own amusement. It was nothing more than his entertainment for the evening, and it angered me, lighting newfound determination inside me.

  I squared my shoulders, scraped together every ounce of courage I had, and sauntered to the shower. It was unnerving to have my back turned to him, knowing he was busy watching me, his filthy eyes glued to my naked body. I practically felt his gaze slither across my skin like the sly snake he was.

  As I turned the faucet, warm water blasted from the shower, and I stepped in. The floor tiles felt rough underneath my feet, and the running water smooth on my skin. After what I’d been through, not even his snake eyes could ruin how good it felt to take a shower.

  I closed my eyes and stepped under the water, getting my face and hair wet, drops slipping through my lips and coating my tongue. After wiping the water from my eyes, I grabbed the sponge and lathered it with vanilla scented soap. If it was a show he wanted, that was what I planned on giving him.

  Water cascaded down my back as I turned to face him. There was no surprise when I saw him standing in the middle of the bathroom, hands in his pants pockets, eyes etched on me like I was a dish about to be served to the starving beast.

  I ignored the surge of adrenaline and the way my skin tingled when our eyes met and kept my expression stone. The sweet scent of vanilla surrounded me as I brushed the sponge across the skin of my chest, easing it from side to side, over my shoulders and down my neck. White scented bubbles popped on my skin, and the thick lather of soap felt like silk. Water dribbled down my face, my wet hair clinging to my shoulders as I continued to wash. If only it was possible to wash his filthy stare off my body.