Page 18 of Saint Valentine

His voice was velvet, low and knowing when he spoke.

“You don’t have to talk, Aria. You’re still stuck with me either way.” His fingers crept up my thigh, stopping just short of touching my pussy.

I couldn't fucking breath.I waited for him to touch it. I wanted him too.

I should’ve shoved his hand away. I should’ve slapped him. But I didn’t.

His fingers flexed, gripping my thigh, just hard enough to make me dizzy.

And still, I didn’t move.

I had to force myself to remember—who he was, what he had done to me, what he was threatening to do.

He wasn’t someone I could fall for.

He wasn’t someone I should feel this for.

He wasn’t the cute ten-year-old boy I would have fought his daddy over. I avoided looking directly at him. I made myself stand. He stood, forcefully wrappingmy hand in his and pulled me toward the door.

I let him pull me through the cold, open space of the house. My heels clicked against the marble floor. We got on a golf cart, rode past hundreds of guards until we pulled up at his father’s house. I didn’t know we had been so close. I almost recoiled. Ididn’t want to go inside there. But I didn’t want to show Saint a weakness. I was sure he’d find a way to use it against me.

I thought I was just walking into a quiet dinner, but the moment we entered the formal dinning room, I froze. It wasn’t just dinner—it was a frontline in a warzone. I was trapped in a room full of men, with hard-faces, cold eyes, and they all turned on me the second I stepped in. My stomach dropped. They stared at me like I was their enemy, all of them did, and I was. I had made a name for myself on my road to revenge.

I recognized all of the faces. Two in particular. Aaron and Sage Dillinger. The brother and father of the man I had killed in revenge. Their eyes burned with hatred. I felt the same way about them.

I tried to pull away from Saint’s but his grip on my hand tightened, holding me in place.

“Stay,” Saint whispered, and I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to snatch away because who in the fuck did he think he was talking to?

“You all know Aria Heart,” Saint said, his voice cutting through the whispers. “You know who her father was. You’re here because all of you have spent years looking for her to harm her.” His hand slashed through the air. “All of that stops now.”

My heart pounded in my chest as Saint continued, his tone calm but deadly. “She will soon be my wife. In thirteen days, on Valentine’s Day. You all know me. You all know my reputation. You all know I will scorch the earth if even one of her pretty curls is touched before or after that day.”

Aaron Dillinger, the father of the man I had killed, stood up from his chair, it echoed when it hit the hardwood floor, his face twisted with rage. “You expect us to just accept this? This murderous bitch killed my son!”

George "Bugs" Moran chimed in, cosigning.

My temper flared, and before I could stop myself, I shot back, “Your son killed somebody I loved. I was being generous by not killing your entire fucking family.” If I had a gun, I would have shot him in his fucking face just like I’d done to his bastard. My blood felt like it was boiling inside my veins. Saint’s hand tightened around mine, a silent warning, I understood. But fuck him.

“Your spawn is exactly where the fuck he deserves to be—in hell.”

Dillinger’s face twisted with rage, and he stepped closer. “My son’s blood is on your hands, and you’ll pay for it,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“You’re wrong. I didn’t get any blood on my hands when I shot him in his ugly fucking face,” I rebutted.

His weird, lizard-looking son was being held back by Frank Rossi, which surprised me. I’d blown up his car when I thought he had something to do with my family’s loss. He didn’t seem as angry as everyone else.

Even as I was arguing with Dillinger, I kept Saint’s father in my peripheral. During all the chaos, Donato Valentine didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t say as much as a word. He just watched me, his eyes cold and calculating. What I felt radiating off of him wasn’t just anger—it was something akin to loathing. I was a problem he wanted to get rid of. He had every reason in the world to hate me. One day, I’d be the reason for his death.

Saint started raising his voice. He let my hand go. I focused on his father. A taunting smirk curved my lips. I wasn’t scared of him when I was an eight-year-old girl, and I damn sure wasn’t now. And that bothered him. It bothered him that his son nowhad more influence and power than him, and he couldn’t touch me. I existed outside of his control.

I knew how he saw my father—as beneath him—and so I knew he saw me the same way. And yet—his son, his ruthless heir, wanted me.

A sociopath with a body count in the hundreds—and his daddy thought I wasn’t good enough for him?

Hilarious.

My staring contest with Donato was broken by the sound of a high-pitched scream. By the time anyone noticed Saint was in kill mode it was already too late.

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