Page 25 of Saint Valentine

“You were a seven-year-old who pulled a gun from her little pink purse and told me to shoot my father. You’re just as crazy,” he said, his voice soft, almost tender. “Who else did you think you’d end up with?”

He had a point. A twisted, horrifying point, but a point, nonetheless.

Chapter twelve.

Aria

Two days. That’s how long Saint had given me a break from his madness, like, even he knew he was too much to handle sometimes. Or maybe it was the whole severed head situation that made him take a step back.

For those two days, he’d actually been... normal. We binge-watched Abbott Elementary, and to my surprise, he liked it. He laughed at the jokes. He made comments about the characters. For a brief moment, it almost felt like we existed outside of this twisted reality.

Today, he was back in his true form

“We’re going,” his tone was dismissive. “Get your shoes on.” He had me dressed today in jeans and a t-shirt, still no panties. He had even taken them from the clothes of mine he’d had taken from my place. Who wore jeans with no panties? But I refused to ask for any.

I didn’t move. I wasn’t playing fantasy wedding with this nut.

“I’m not going,” I shot back. “You can bring the cake here, or you can pick whatever you want. I don’t care.”

I could hear him take a step closer.

His patience was running thin; I could see it on his face, and the feeling was fucking mutual. I think he thought we had bonded over him killing the Dillinger’s because I had been cordial fortwo days. We hadn’t. I stopped trying to talk sense into him because doing so was like yelling into the void.

“This isn’t a negotiation, Aria. We’re going. Now.”

I couldn’t help the scoff that escaped my lips. “Or what?”

I didn’t hear him move, but the next thing I knew, he was in front of me, his hand locking around my wrist. He yanked me forward, forcing me to face him.

“Let go,” I snapped. My fist balled at my side. The manhandling shit was getting old.

“Don’t you hit me, Aria,” he nearly growled. “Remember what I told you.” The way he said it had my hand loosening.

“Don’t grab me then, Sinister.” I had taken to calling him different nicknames that fit him better than his own name.

He reached up and gripped my chin. “Stop calling me that. You know my name.”

“Saint doesn’t fit the heir to hell’s throne,” I tried to shake out of his hold, but he just tightened.

He visibly gritted his teeth. “Call me whatever you want, but you’re going. And if you run, or try to get help,” he whispered the first part, his breath smelling of coffee and caramel. The thought of whether his mouth tasted like it came from nowhere. For just a second, I forgot our circumstance, and my eyes got caught on his plush lips, causing my pulse to quicken and my breath to go shallow. The next thing he said brought me back to reality quickly. “I’ll kill your friends. And then I’ll find you. And when I do, you won’t like what happens next.”

My heart raced, but I held his gaze. “You’re an asshole, you know that,” I bit out.

He was so close I could taste the heat between us. He leaned in closer. It looked as if he was about to kiss me, and I hated that I was anticipating it. But then he pulled back, and there was this half-smirk on his face that made me want to throw a tantrum—real-life stomp my feet and fall to the ground.

“Maybe,” he said, pulling me closer. “But I’m your asshole. So stop fighting me.”

For a split second, I wondered if he was right about us. The other day, he’d made a point I couldn’t shake. What kind of man did a girl like me, who was raised around violence, who lived in a world where love didn’t always fit, end up with? What kind of man could I marry? I was strong-willed, reckless at the mouth, spoiled, prone to violence, and sometimes I wanted what I wanted. I was a lot to handle. I would walk all over a weak man. Saint had a way of reining me in. But did I want that?

My momma wanted grandkids. She kept dropping hints. She was a romantic; she’d probably get a kick out of me marrying the little boy who proposed to me at eight, who I’d gushed about for years.

I was so confused. I yanked free from his grasp.

“I’m not going, and fuck you very much.”

Without another word, he lifted my one hundred and ninety pounds effortlessly off the ground, throwing me over his shoulder.

A gasp skittered past my lips.

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