Page 22 of Saint Valentine

His smirk vanished.

Slowly, he wet his lips.

“Catch up,” he repeated, his voice eerie. “Fuck. And then… go on about our business?”

“Yeah,” I said, meeting his gaze head-on. “That’s what normal people do, Saint. They move on, sometimes they fuck before they do.”

His smirk returned, but it wasn’t playful this time. It was dangerous.

“I’m not normal, remember. You called me insane?” he asked, tilting his head. “You think I’d let you treat me like that considering what you mean to me?”

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “Geez, Saint. It was just a thought.” I couldn’t believe it sounded like his feelings were actually hurt.

“No.” His fingers flexed against my thigh, pressing slightly. “It was an expectation. You wanted to fuck me and go on about your business.” His voice rose. “Like I didn’t mean anything to you.”

I rolled my eyes. I wanted to laugh at him. “You have problems.”

“You’re right,” he mumbled. “But don’t worry, wife.” His smirk deepened. “We’ll work on fixing me together.”

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat, pretending I didn’t hear him.

We pulled up to his place a few minutes later.

As soon as the SUV stopped and we got out, I turned to Saint. “I need a minute with Isabella.”

He studied me for a long moment before exhaling and stepping aside. “You have one minute,” he said.

I made my way over to the SUV she had arrived in and pulled her off to the side. Isabella barely moved at first, her body rigid, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her eyes were wide and glossy with unshed tears. Her hands trembled as she clutched at her dress, her knuckles turning white, her chest rising and falling too fast, like she couldn’t get enough air.

I pulled her into a hug, feeling her whole body quiver against mine.

“I’ll get us out of this,” I whispered, holding her tighter. “Just stay sane, okay? We have to be smart.”

Isabella let out a shaky breath, nodding against my shoulder.

Behind me, I could feel Saint’s eyes on us, watching, waiting.

I let her go, then made my way back over to Saint.

“I want to show you something,” he said after entering the house, his voice low and intimate, like we were sharing a secret.

I didn’t argue. He led me upstairs, his hand on the small of my back.

When we reached a bedroom I assumed was his, I braced myself. I thought I knew what was coming—what he wanted. But when he opened the door and I stepped inside, what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

The room was filled with paintings and drawings, sketches. Dozens of them, maybe more, covering every inch of the walls. And every single one was of me.

There were ones of me from when we met as kids, ones of me as an adult. Some were realistic, almost photographic in their detail, while others were abstract, but they were all unmistakably me.

“How? How did you know what I looked like as an adult?”

“I saw you once,” he said. “With your mother, walking into a restaurant downtown. You were laughing, and I couldn’t look away.”

Saint moved closer to me, his presence already dominating the room, now dominating my space too. He reached out and let his fingers graze the edge of one of the paintings, his eyes fixated on it, dark and intense.

“Why?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. “These paintings—they’re not just about you. They’re about me, too. They were a way for me to express what I felt about you.”

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