Page 50 of Saint Valentine

“I need a priest to marry me,” I said. “Someone who can keep his mouth shut. And I need him to meet me at the address I give you by noon.”

“He’ll be there.” Vinny didn’t ask questions. He never did. That’s why I used him.

By eight a.m., a dress—the exact dress Aria had chosen, the one I’d ripped in a fit of anger—had been delivered. It hung in the bedroom now, waiting for her.

She was still asleep when I slipped back into the room. The sight of her, curled up in my bed, made my chest tighten. I gave myself a talk. Be nice, don’t be controlling. This day was supposed to be about her too.

I knelt beside the bed, my hands sliding under the sheets. She stirred as I kissed her thigh. There were no panties to remove, which was why I never let her wear them. Her breath hitched when my mouth found her clit and sucked until she was squirming.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, waking up, her back arching off the sheets.

I gave her exactly what I knew she would need to be more agreeable. My fingers spread her pussy lips open, exposing the slickness. My tongue plunged deep inside of her, fucking her with slow, deliberate strokes. She moaned, a desperate, needy sound that had my dick aching.

I replaced my tongue with my fingers, pushing in, watching her stretch around me. I slowed my pace, teasing, dragging my fingers out until she was trembling. Her breath was comingout in jagged pants. Her walls clamped down, greedy, clenching around me. She was close. Too close.

She tried to squeeze her thighs shut, to trap my head between them. I stopped just long enough to shove her legs back apart, rough, demanding.

“Don’t move,” I warned.

She whimpered, but her body went still. My tongue slid up the slick folds of her pussy.

She shattered. A rush of wetness coated my fingers, dripped down to her ass. I licked her clean, groaning against her heat as she whimpered, shaking beneath me.

Her body begged for more. And I was far from done.

“Saint,” she gasped, her voice thick with sleep and something else.

I didn’t stop until she came, her back arching off the bed. When I finally pulled away, she was glaring at me, but there was no real heat in it.

“What was that about?” she asked, her voice wary.

“Starting the day right,” I said, standing and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Now, get up. I’m running you a bath.”

She didn’t argue, which surprised me. Maybe she was too tired, or maybe she knew it was pointless.

“On your birthday, I get head and a bath?”

I was surprised by the fact that she knew it was my birthday. It was never a joyous time; the two people who loved my mother most, Donato and her mother, mourned on this day.

Avoiding a discussion about my birthday, I turned the focus back on her. “Come here,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. I reached for the hem of her shirt, and she didn’t stopme. She lifted her arms, letting me peel the fabric off her body, revealing the smooth, rich brown of her skin. She was stunning. She was the muse I had painted a thousand times, the subject of every brushstroke, every sketch I had ever created. But no canvas could ever do her justice in my eyes.

I helped her into the tub, her body easing into the heat. She let out a small sigh, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before she looked up at me again. That look—it was different. It was like she was seeing me for the first time, or maybe like she was finally letting herself see me.

I knelt beside the tub, rolling up my sleeves as I reached for the shampoo. Her head tilted back, curls spilling over the edge, vulnerable beneath my touch. I poured warm water over her hair, fingers threading through the strands, massaging her scalp with slow, deliberate circles. She let out a soft hum, her body sinking deeper into the water, trusting me.

She shouldn’t trust me.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured, my voice rough, almost strained. Her eyes opened halfway, meeting mine, soft but guarded. There was something else there—something deeper. Like she saw through me, past the violence, past the darkness, and into something that wasn’t meant to be exposed. It made my chest tighten. Made my pulse spike.

I rinsed her hair, the water cascading down her neck, her shoulders. She reached up, her fingers brushing against mine, the touch fleeting but lingering enough to unravel something inside me.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of water dripping from her hair.

I helped her dry off, my hands lingering longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone. Shestared at me with something softer in her eyes, something that made my chest tighten. I’d burn down the world to keep her looking at me like that—like she saw the monster in me and chose to stay anyway. Like she saw the cracks in my armor and didn’t flinch.

“You’re being weird,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she tilted her head. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see,” I replied, brushing a kiss against the top of her head. She smelled like roses and something uniquely her, something that had haunted me since the first time I saw her.

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