Page 21 of Saint Valentine

His hand slammed against the bathroom door.

“What were you all talking about, Isabella?”

Isabella let out a broken sound—part whimper, part sob, her entire body curling inward.

“Are you fucking serious?” I snapped. “Why would you say that to her, then ask her a question?”

Grabbing Isabella by her wrist, I started pulling her toward the bathroom door. Saint stepped aside.

I had to damn near pull her all the way back to the table. I helped her sit in her chair and dropped into mine. Jason just sat there looking at her.

“Fucking help her. Hold her or something.” I yelled at his stupid self.

He hesitated, then finally reached out, awkwardly placing a hand on Isabella’s back. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He got on my nerves.

Saint sat down and didn’t say anything right away. He just watched me, his expression unreadable.

I glared back at him.

Then—he nodded his head, like he was answering a question nobody asked.

“The way you just jumped in front of her. Like a shield. Like you could actually do something. It reminded me of when you did that for me.” He exhaled. “It was stupid then, and it’s stupid now. But it made me realize that’s the reason I want you as a wife. You are—”

I rolled my eyes, cutting him off. I didn’t want to hear any more of his ruminations about what I’d done as a child. “Yeah, yeah. You’re obsessed, I’m brave. I’m strong. I know. Eat your damn food, Voldemort. So we can go, please…”

Chapter ten

Aria

The ride back to Saint’s house was silent. Isabella and Jason were in the SUV behind us, flanked by guards, while I sat in the backseat with Saint, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city lights blur past, thinking about my current predicament.

“Did you enjoy dinner?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence.

I gritted my teeth, forcing a smile. “Yes, it was… lovely. You scared my friend so badly she damn near fainted.”

He was quick with the rebuttal. “I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t been acting shifty.” His fingers flexed against my thigh, just slightly. “I didn’t miss the fact that you wouldn’t let her answer my question.”

I didn’t respond.

Saint exhaled, his hand shifting, fingertips brushing the edge of the ring on my finger—the one he had given me.

“What would be so terrible about marrying me?” he asked.

I let out a humorless laugh. “I could name a thousand reasons,” I said, twisting his ring around my finger as I held his gaze. “Let’s make a list. One—you’re crazy. Two—you kidnapped me. Three—you’re emotionally manipulative and keep mentioning our childhood, hoping to sway me. Four—you have a God complex.”

He nodded as if he agreed.

I continued. “Five—you think threats count as foreplay. Six—you don’t respect personal space. You’re practically finger-fucking me right now. Seven—you’re possessive to the point of insanity. Eight—you have a whole damn maze to hunt people in, Saint.” I tilted my head, watching him. “Should I go on?”

Saint chuckled like that shit was funny.

“So, you’ve never thought about what would happen if you and I ever met again?”

I exhaled, my stomach twisting. If only he knew I had actually planned to meet him again.

I leaned back against the seat, my lips pressing together before I finally answered.

“Yeah, I thought about it,” I admitted. “We weren’t getting married in my head. I figured we’d catch up, fuck, and go on about our business after.”

---