The Rise of Saint

by J, Bella

  “Well, there’s an easy solution, then.” He lifted a hand, and this time I didn’t inch away, allowing him to trace the back of his hand down the side of my face. “If you don’t want me to fuck other women, Mila,” he leaned closer, lips barely brushing against my earlobe, “you’ll have to take their place.”

  A shiver rippled from where his breath touched my skin, down to my clenched thighs. It should have disgusted me, the way he insinuated I be his whore. It should have forced bile to burn up my throat, the thought alone causing me to cringe. But it didn’t. Instead, it forced unwelcome heat to every corner of my body, wrapping around every bone.

  “Think about it.” His hand brushed down my arm, leaving heated flesh in its wake. “We could make our deal so much more interesting that way.” Every word he uttered was laced with wicked intent, his voice laden with seduction—manipulation.

  I swallowed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You’re disgusting,” I sneered between clenched teeth.

  “I think the word you’re looking for is filthy.”

  “Or senile.”

  A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of lips. “You know, Mila, you are making this so much fun.” He took my hand in his, fingers laced with mine. I gasped as he pulled me closer, placing my hand on his crotch. “You feel that? You’re making me hard. And now I’m wondering what you’ll look like bent over that dining table, legs spread and cunt glistening.”

  “Stop,” I whispered, but he ignored my weak plea by moving forward, forcing me to move back, my palm still firmly pressed against his cock.

  “You hate it, don’t you?”

  “If by it you mean you, then, yes. I do.”

  He shook his head. “You might hate me, but you hate the way your body responds to me more.”

  “Again, senile seems like a more fitting word.” I refused to let him see anything other than disgust on my face, desperately trying to keep my expression cold and hard even though my body had become a pool of heated waves and electric currents.

  The edge of the dining table bit into my lower back, and he let go of my hand. His arm snaked around my waist and lifted me onto the table.

  My muscles tensed, my core tightening with a need that burned as bright as the fire in his eyes.

  “Tell me your thighs aren’t aching right now.” His fingers brushed against my knees. “Tell me that if I slip a finger inside your panties, I won’t find your pussy slick and swollen for me.”

  Fingers gripped my knees and jerked them apart, spreading my legs and tearing the dress up the side of my thigh. The rip echoed between us, but he didn’t even blink, not caring he just ruined a thousand-dollar dress.

  I wanted to tell him to stop, but I couldn’t. ‘No’ burned the tip of my tongue, and my mind fought against the ripples of tainted desire that spread through my blood like a disease. But there was no stopping it. My body was already infected and out of control, his touch, his voice, his words, even his goddamn scent twisting and corrupting me into wanting more.

  I let out a rush of air as he moved between my legs, pulling me to the edge of the table. My panties brushed against his pants, and my eyes rolled closed as he flexed his hips, allowing me to feel how hard he was—how ready he was to take me.

  Soft lips caressed my throat as I craned my neck, and his tongue explored my skin with slow, leisurely strokes. Something dark and demanding stirred inside me, a throbbing ache pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. It was wrong for me to feel it, for my body to demand it. But I wanted more. I wanted the rapture, the release, the freedom to indulge in his sins. I wanted to feel his hands all over my heated skin while I lusted and hated him with equal vigor.

  Lips traveled down my chest and lingered at the swell of my breast. “You’re conflicted, Mila, and it’s fucking beautiful—the way your body wants me while your mind hates me.” He moved his hips, grinding his cock against me, the friction threatening to push me over the edge. “If I make you come, will you hate me more?”

  “Don’t.” It was the only word I could manage, just a sliver of a plea that carried no weight—like the confession of a sinner with corrupted intentions.

  “Don’t what?” He gave a hard thrust against me the same time he pulled me closer, forcing my body to rock against his. “Don’t stop? Or don’t make you come?”

  I was there. I was right there standing at the edge, my body already swaying forward, ready to fall. My head was screaming for him to not let me tip over, to not make me come. Yet my body was demanding he didn’t stop. It was insane. Maybe I was the crazy one. The lunatic who fell for temptation at the devil’s hands. Weak and powerless against him.

  My body was a mere inch away from the release it craved, and I rocked my hips against him. “I hate you.”

  “I know. But I’m still going to fuck you.”

  Rapid breaths left my lungs, and I was one thrust, one gentle touch away from the release that would finally snap the rubber band around my body in two. But then he moved and pulled away from me, leaving me at the edge, breathless and needy.

  “Not today, though. But soon.”

  I opened my eyes, frustration bubbling at the surface while every inch of my body ached. The look on his face showed victory and attainment, crystal eyes burning with malicious intent. The bastard played me. He fucking played me, and I didn’t do shit to stop him.

  Saint adjusted himself and straightened. “We leave in an hour. Be ready.”

  Dumbfounded and flustered, I watched as he walked out, leaving me behind to bask in my own humiliation.

  Tears stung my eyes, and my bottom lip trembled with shame. Disgrace cloaked me, embarrassment sucking me in as I realized how easily he could undo me—tear me at the seams and rip me apart.

  I wiped at my eyes and slipped off the table. My dress was torn at the side, pieces of thread dangling against my skin. If this was me after a few days with Saint, what state would I be in after six months? What would be left of me once he was done, once he got what he wanted and had no use for me anymore?

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Elena was less than pleased about the torn dress. But she didn’t ask questions, and that was good since I wasn’t sure I’d be able to answer them without bursting into tears. It was enough that Saint had humiliated me the way he did. I didn’t need to add insult to injury by crying over it like a little girl who just witnessed her doll’s head get torn off.

  While Elena chatted away as if nothing about this entire situation was fucked up, I blankly stared out the heavily tinted window of the limousine.

  The metallic gray sunhat I wore had an even wider brim than the one I had on when they snuck me out of the posh New York hotel. It was almost impossible to look straight ahead without straining your neck.

  I braved a glance at Saint, who sat next to me, typing on his phone. He had been ignoring me ever since our little encounter in the dining room, not even looking up when Elena and I met them in the garage of the estate. And I was too troubled by the hurricane of emotions torpedoing through me to even care about the entire fleet of sportscars, limos, SUVs, and motorcycles lined up throughout an underground parking area bigger than fucking Walmart.

  I anxiously tugged at the embroidered seam of the gray dress I wore. I felt like an overdressed tart attending church in her designer dress and her sin-stained soul.

  “Now, remember,” Saint’s voice filled the empty space between us, “keep your sunglasses on at all times. And try to keep your head down without making it seem like you’re hiding.”

  I frowned. “How on Earth do I do that?”

  Only then did he look up from his phone and at me. “By leaning into your man and keeping your face close to his chest. That way you’ll be shielding your face and showing affection to your husband-to-be. Two birds with one stone.”

  I scoffed. “Aim that metaphorical stone at my head, and we can make it three birds.”

  Saint refused to entertain my sarcastic remark and returned to whatever he
was busy with on his phone. Probably arranging a massacre and securing his second wife while he planned to take over the fucking world.

  One would think since it was my first time in Italy, I’d be eating up the scenery as we drove through the streets. But I hardly noticed anything. The hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach sucked all the pretty out of the world around me. My thoughts were a mess, and my life had somehow slipped from my grasp right into the devil’s hands. But I just closed my eyes and saw that little red-haired girl’s face and so many others, imagining the day I’d be able to help them. To keep them from getting hurt. The way I got hurt.

  Absentmindedly, I reached up and traced a finger against the scar behind my ear. It was a tiny mark, a small piece of marred skin that was hidden to those who didn’t know about it. It served as a reminder of what I had survived—an abusive foster father who found it amusing to see my flesh sizzle and burn under the coal of his cigarette.

  “You do that a lot?”

  I looked at Saint, who watched me with curious eyes.

  “You pretend to tuck your hair behind your ear when in fact you’re touching that little scar.”

  “How do you—”

  “He hurt you.”

  I dropped my hand onto my lap. “Who?”

  “One of many.” He didn’t look away, swirls of indigo turning his eyes into a hardened color of cruelty.

  “Don’t pretend like you know me.” I turned my attention back out the window, the outside world slowly being clothed in darkness as the sun started to set.

  We didn’t talk after that and spent the entire trip in excruciating silence. It was only when we finally came to a stop that he slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. “No matter what, you do not speak to anyone. Do not answer any questions. Behave and do what is expected of you, and we’ll both get what we want.”

  There was no time for me to think of some sarcastic comeback or snide remark, as someone opened the passenger side door, and Saint got out. The second his feet touched the ground, he held his hand out to me, and for the life of me I couldn’t get myself to take it. I couldn’t muster up the courage to place my palm in his and to let the show begin. It was too hard, and it was wrong.

  “Mila.” His tone was sharp, threatening, wrapped in hidden warning.

  I closed my eyes and took a breath, my heart beating so fast I was expecting it to explode at any second. But there was no turning back now. There was no defying him or fighting back. When all this started, I was fighting for my freedom, fighting to survive a monster. But now, because of the deal I had made with the devil, it was no longer just about me. It was about all those hopeless faces of kids who had nothing and no one. It was about that little red-haired girl who refused to waste the only thing that was hers, on others. Her tears.

  By keeping the picture of her face in my head, I managed to reach out and take his hand—surrendering. Giving up control. Giving up the fight. It was also the moment I realized I had made the biggest mistake of my life asking for something in return at the expense of my soul. Because now I had no choice but to play my part and get through the next six months. It was no longer only my life and my future at stake. But that little red-haired girl’s, too.

  16

  Saint

  I had to admit, Mila did better than I expected. The entire way from the limo, across the dock, and onto my yacht, Mila clung to my side as if her life depended on it. She kept her head down, angled toward my chest, and clutched my hand tightly. We moved quickly, James leading the way with Elena two steps behind him. As suspected, we had managed to avoid a crowd by traveling at dawn and putting extra security in place. But I’d been playing this game long enough to know there were always eyes watching.

  We boarded the yacht, Mila’s heels clicking across the wooden deck. The Empress had a fifteen-million-euro price tag, a present I bought myself a few months ago. It was a luxury yacht that rivaled all others.

  I couldn’t help but glance down at her as she took in her surroundings. Those pretty green eyes of hers were beaming in awe of the 460 GT sailing yacht. The large deck spaces were designed for entertainment, and the six lavish double state rooms were optimized to deliver timeless elegance. The Empress was a spectacular venue for weekend revelries, filled with overflowing glasses of champagne, caviar, and an abundance of naked women lounging around on the open flybridge.

  It was also the perfect venue for a private wedding.

  Elena stepped in next to me, both of us staring at Mila as she explored. “You know you can’t impress a girl like her with money?”

  “Who says I’m trying to impress her?” I placed my hands in my pants pockets.

  “No one. Just something to think about. I mean, it would be easier for her to act the part of a happy wife when she is, in fact…happy.”

  I scowled at Elena from the side. “That’s quite a shrewd thing to say.”

  “Again, something to think about.”

  James boarded the yacht with a garment bag in hand. “Where do I put this?”

  “VIP room, please, James,” Elena answered then turned to me and shrugged when she saw the giant question mark on my forehead. “She’s the bride, Marcello. The least you can do is give her the master suite.”

  Elena sauntered off and disappeared below deck. I’d known that woman my entire life, and I knew the way her head worked. It was easy to see she came from the same bloodline as my mother, having nothing in common with the Russo family. Even surrounded by darkness, she refused to believe no light could be found. But I had Russo blood running in my veins, and I knew no matter how many times light conquered the dark, it always returned. Light always ended up fading to black. Eventually.

  “Is this where it’s going to happen?” Mila’s voice grabbed my attention, and I couldn’t help but notice how pale she looked. Scared. Uncertain. “The wedding?”

  I joined her in the middle of the open space of the deck. “Yes. It’s private, with only my staff onboard.”

  She rubbed her hands together, her gray dress hugging every curve. “What happens next? After the wedding?”

  “You don’t have to concern yourself with those details. All you need to worry about is—”

  “Acting my part,” she interrupted. “I know.”

  The engines started, and the crew moved about, getting everything ready for us to leave. Mila’s gaze moved in every direction. “It’s funny. I’ve always wanted to travel the world. I mean, who doesn’t? But this,” she swallowed hard, “this is not how I imagined it. I have no desire to see anything here, or to even be here. I’d do anything to be able to go back home.”

  “This is your home.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s the place I was born. The place my parents lived their pampered life while I was being beaten and abused by people who only kept me so they could get their monthly check from the government.”

  I squared my shoulders and widened my stance while I watched her. “You haven’t asked me about them.”

  “Who? My parents?” She let out a mocking snort. “I actually don’t care. I couldn’t care less. I just want this all to be over so I can get back to my life in New York and forget all about this goddamn nightmare.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And forget about me?” I had no idea why that bothered me, why I’d care if she remembered me or not after all this was over.

  Her eyes found mine, the yellow and red hues of sunset falling perfectly on her forest irises, gold rings illuminated around her pupils. “Honestly,” her face hardened, “right now, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do if it meant I could forget you even existed.”

  It stung. True as fuck, it stung and left a heavy weight inside my chest. It felt familiar, yet unnerving because I couldn’t place it. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck it was, and it pissed me off. This entire conversation was pissing me off.

  I loosened my tie and opened the top button of my dress shirt. “Well, that’s unfortunate for you because for the next six months you’ll be re
minded of my existence every second of every minute of every goddamn day.” I slanted my head, glaring in her direction as my ears burned hot. “And since you’ll be needing my help and money to fulfill your little humanitarian dream by playing Mother Theresa with the hopes of getting rid of your own demons, my existence isn’t something you’ll ever be able to forget.” I took a breath, and my nostrils flared, my fists balled at my sides. It wasn’t like me to lose my cool over something as trivial as a stupid, mediocre woman’s opinion about me. But it wasn’t so much her words as it was the look in her eyes that struck me. It wasn’t hate, or anger, or dislike, but rather sorrow, pain, as if she was heartbroken over the idea that a man like me could still breathe.

  Fuck that. I had worked too hard, spent too many hours of my life putting this plan together so I could get what I really wanted—and that wasn’t her. What I really wanted wasn’t the woman who stood in front of me with her tempting curves and wild curls. She was just a means to an end. That was it.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “You need to get ready. My captain will perform the ceremony tonight, and—”

  “Tonight?” There was no mistaking the fear in her eyes, the panic that swirled in her irises. I loved watching her squirm, loved how easy it was to play with her, to mindfuck her. I was a cruel bastard and never claimed otherwise, and while Milana Katarina Torres was mine, I’d play with her until she broke.

  “One of the staff will show you to your room.” I buttoned my suit jacket and turned my back on her. “The ceremony takes place at midnight.”

  17

  Mila

  It was such a sham. A mockery of something that was supposed to be sacred and beautiful. Not only was I marrying a man I couldn’t stand, but he also chose to make an entire show of it too.

  I eased my hands down the front of the dress. Elena couldn’t stop talking about the Oscar de la Renta design ever since I walked in. I could have said I hated the dress, that it wasn’t my style. But I’d be lying. The dress was perfect, a simple yet elegant design I would have chosen myself. It was a strapless, nude illusion dress, the dainty, sheer overlay embroidered with delicate, leafy branches to add a touch a romance. The neckline dipped low between my breasts, and the fabric of the overlay felt like silk against my skin. There was a subtle flare that started at the top of my hips, the leaf embellishment traveling down the subtle creases. The nude shade melted against the color of my skin, and if all this was real and I was marrying the man I loved, it would have been my dream wedding dress. But it wasn’t. None of this was real, or romantic.