Page 8 of Saint Valentine

His hand flew up—so fast I didn’t have time to react. Thick, dexterous fingers wrapped around my throat, applying pressure.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my skin flushed with heat. The aggression from him caused every muscle in my body to lock up.

I couldn’t do anything as he dragged me across the floor, further into the house. He shoved me into a chair in the middle of the floor. His grip got tighter, his blunt fingernails digging into my skin.

My head was spinning from the loss of oxygen, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me gasp for air.

I raised my chin.

His grip tightened even more.

I pushed air through my nose.

His lips were close enough to kiss—or sink my teeth into—when he spoke. He smelled like soap and his skin.

“You don’t pull a gun on a dangerous man unless you're prepared to use it,” his voice was hard. He said it like he was trying to teach me something I didn’t already know.

He loosened his grip around my neck, finally letting me breathe a little.

Letting me respond.

I met his gaze as I spoke. “I would’ve shot you if it meant saving them,” I snapped. “The only reason I didn’t was because I knew your men were here. It was a losing situation.”

Saint looked at me like I had just told him the world was flat.

"We’re old friends, Aria," he said. There was something in his voice that let me know he was toying with me, but he might also have been hurt by my words.

He rubbed his jaw.

"You would kill me?"

“Yes,” I answered without missing a beat. “But that’s not possible now. Let’s move forward. I’ll give you the money that was stolen—with interest.”

“No,” he replied. "It’s not about the money. It’s the principle. You’re part of this world, Aria. You know that. What would your father have done if someone stole from him?"

I frowned. “I was part of this world. Emphasis on was. And everyone that worked for my father was loyal to him. They ate as well as he did, so they had no reason to steal from him,” I spat out. “Don’t compare him to the sociopath that spit you out.”

Saint’s anger showed in the tick of his jaw. His voice rose. “Enough talk,” he snarled. “They have to die, Aria.”

His body language and tone had shifted. I’d obviously hit a nerve. I guess he was not a fan of hearing the truth about his father.

Predictably, Jason and Isabella got loud again, begging and screaming.

“Please! Don’t—please… please. Don’t kill us!”

Isabella’s cries were high-pitched as she begged for mercy, her hands shaking as she reached out toward him.

Hearing her beg and cry, sounding so broken, was unbearable. It felt like a knife being twisted in my chest.

Her begging didn’t faze Saint at all. It was nothing more than background noise. His eyes only momentarily flicked to Jason and Isabella when their screams got too loud before he returned his attention to me.

"Didn't I say shut the fuck up,” he gritted between his teeth.

They fell silent again.

I needed time.

“You’re your father’s errand boy. Shouldn’t you call him and ask him what you can and can’t do? Can you turn down my money without his permission?” I blurted out, stalling, trying to think of how to get them out of this alive. Maybe my cousin would show up in time to save us all if I gave him enough time. “You do whatever he says, don’t you? Like a good little boy.”

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