Page 37 of Saint Valentine

She hesitated for a few second. Finally, she nodded. “Yes.”

I knew she only said it because she felt sorry for me. Because she didn’t know how else to respond. But I didn’t care. I would use those feelings to my advantage.

I drove us to a dance studio. Aria waited in the car while I went in. I was trusting her not to run.

When I went back out to get her, she was still in the driver’s seat. The instructor was waiting for us. She taught us a simple waltz, guiding us through the steps.

At first, Aria was stiff, her movements awkward and hesitant. But as the music played and we moved together, she began to relax. Her body softened against mine, her hands gripping my shoulders as we swayed to the rhythm.

The tension between us built, palpable. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. I was surprised when she pushed herself up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to mine.

It wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was desperate, hungry, like I was trying to pour everything I couldn’t say into that one kiss. Her hands tangled in my hair, her body pressing against mine.

But then she pulled away, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I’m sorry for what you found out today…” She smoothed her thumb over my lip, removing the lip gloss she’d left there.

“I know whether you show it or not that you’re—”

I didn’t let her finish. Instead, I pulled her back into the dance, holding her close as we moved together.

When I took her home that night, she hesitated at the door of the room she had been sleeping in, her eyes meeting mine. “Can I… can I stay with you tonight?”

I nodded. More pity I would accept.

She followed me to my room. I didn’t miss how her eyes darted over all the art of her. The fact that she was uncomfortable and still wanted to stay with me meant she cared.

We took turns taking showers. I lent her a shirt. After, she curled up beside me on the bed, smelling like me. We didn’t talk.

But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that my father wasn’t my father. And that my life was a lie.

Chapter Nineteen

Saint

The feeling of eyes on me pulled me from my sleep. Before I even opened my eyes, my hand slid under the pillow where my Beretta was tucked away—instinct that had been drilled into me by years of living in a world where trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

When I finally looked, I found Aria propped up on her elbow, watching me. Her hair was a mess, her curls had turned into waves. Her pretty brown eyes were dark, unreadable.

“What?” I asked, my voice rough with sleep.

“Let’s fuck.”

I blinked hard, sure I’d misheard her. But the way she was looking at me—like she was daring me to say no—told me I hadn’t. I turned onto my side to face her fully.

“We’re getting married in four days,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “I’m exhausted fighting you. Maybe if we explore the chemistry we have, I can immerse myself in Stockholm syndrome or something and be okay with losing my life to you.” She half joked.

She didn’t give me time to process her words.

Her head dipped, her lips hovering near mine, close enough that I could feel her breath against my skin. “Fuck me, Saint.”

My dick immediately started growing against my thigh.

She stood, pulling her shirt over her head in one fluid motion and leaving her completely nude. She was beautiful—all softness and curves, her skin glowed in the faint light filtering through the curtains.

I had to be dreaming. This couldn’t be real. Not after everything.

But then she crawled back into bed, her body pressing against mine, and I knew this was real.

I allowed her to pull my shirt over my head, then my boxers down.

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