Page 23 of Saint Valentine

He stepped back slightly, his eyes still scanning the artwork, almost like he was lost in it.

“You’ve haunted me. Every damn day. You’ve been in my head, my heart, my soul since I was ten. I needed you with me, even if it was just a piece of you. So I painted. I painted and drew you because that’s the only way I could have you.” He looked down at me. “But now, you’re here in the flesh, and you’re mine. And I don’t plan to let you go.”

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice calm, trying to reason with him. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just… decide someone belongs to you. People aren’t possessions, Saint. You can’t own someone.”

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Why not?” he asked, as if it was actually a question that needed to be answered. “If I want something, I take it. That’s how the world works. That’s how I’ve always lived.”

I took a deep breath, trying to snap him out of it. I was starting to actually have sympathy for him. Did he even know any better? “But it’s not how it should work. I know how you were raised. I understand why you are the way you are. But you can’t make someone live the fantasy you dreamed up.”

He laughed, a full-on belly laugh, like I told him a joke or was a joke myself. “You’re here, aren’t you? And we’re getting married. And you’ll stay with me. Because you belong to me. So obviously, I can.”

The sheer madness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know—I could talk, I could beg, I could reason, but it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t listening. He was hearing me, but he wasn’t listening.

Still, I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.

What could I say to someone who had built an entire world around me? Why in the fuck did I find it kind of endearing?

As we stood there, the silence stretching between us, a single truth settled in my chest. I was either going to have to kill him… or be stuck with him.

And the worst part?

I didn’t want to kill Saint.

He reminded me of an abused Doberman I once rescued—Spike.

Wild. Uncontrollable. Snapping and growling at everyone who came near him, except for me. It took time, patience, and a hell of a lot of effort, but in the end, that dog was mine—loyal until the day he died.

Saint was a wild human—one that couldn’t help but be vicious, one that only knew survival and control because no one had ever taught him anything else.

Maybe I’d be able to tolerate him if I thought about him in that perspective.

Could I convince myself that his obsession wasn’t crazy but instinct?

Maybe I needed to practice patience with him instead of resistance.

“Will you lie with me?” he asked, his voice breaking through my thoughts.

The way he was looking at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—made my chest tighten.

I didn’t answer because I knew “no” would have flown out of my mouth. I let him lead me to the bed. Sometimes you had to pick your battles. I wasn’t going to fight him on this. Not in a room full of images of myself.

I lay down. He lay down beside me, his body warm against mine, draping his arm over my waist.

I didn’t know what to feel—anger, fear, confusion, or something else entirely. I just lay there, surrounded by the images of myself, staring at the desk in his slightly cracked office door.

Chapter Eleven

Aria

I woke up to the sound of gunfire. My eyes snapped open, and for a moment, I was too disoriented to remember where I was. Then it hit me—I was in Saint’s bed, still fully dressed in the gown from dinner.

Bang!

Another gunshot echoed through the house, loud and unmistakable. Avoiding looking at the images of myself, I was on my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. I ran downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor before I could think. The living room was dimly lit, just enough to avoid running into Saint. He came to a stop in the center of the room like some kind of dark god. His thick, dark brows curved with a hint of mischief and malice, and his shirt was soaked in blood. My stomach twisted, but I didn’t have time to process the sight before he spoke.

“Oh no…” he said, his voice calm. “I was hoping the noise didn’t wake you.”

“Why were there gunshots?” I asked him, my heart still pounding.

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