Chapter 5: The Way He Looked at Me Could Burn Skin
509 Words
The kiss should have ended.
But it didn’t.
He kissed me like I was the only thing he needed to stay alive. Like touching me wasn’t enough—he needed to devour me.
When he finally pulled back, both of us were breathing hard. My lips were swollen. His eyes were darker. Almost… unhinged.
And he looked at me like he didn’t know whether to kiss me again—or ruin me.
I stepped back, trying to collect myself.
“That was a mistake,” I whispered.
Saint tilted his head. “Is that what it felt like to you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Say the word,” he said, stepping closer again. “Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want more.”
I hated how silent I was.
He smirked—dark, knowing.
“That’s what I thought.”
He turned away like he hadn’t just lit a fire under my skin. Like he hadn’t just made me forget everything I ran from.
But the second his back was to me, I snapped.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He stopped. Slowly turned. “Then tell me.”
“I don’t owe you my story.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I own your presence. That gives me the right to ask.”
I stepped toward him now. “And what about you? You don’t share anything either. You’re just a man with a fake name, a warehouse full of secrets, and a death wish in your eyes.”
His jaw ticked. I hit a nerve.
"You're right," he said finally, voice cold again. “I’m not your savior. I’m not here to fix you. But I’ll protect what’s mine—and right now, Aria, that includes you.”
“You don’t even know what you’re claiming.”
He moved fast.
One hand gripped the back of my neck. Not rough—but firm enough to remind me just how easily he could take control. The other landed on my waist, fingers digging into my skin like a warning.
“I don’t care what you’ve done,” he said. “Or who hurt you. But if someone touches you now—they’re dead.”
My heart thundered. “Why?”
He didn’t blink. “Because you let me touch you first.”
---
Before I could answer, a sharp buzz echoed through the warehouse.
Saint tensed instantly.
He turned, dropped his hands, and walked toward a small security monitor near the stairs.
“What is it?” I asked, suddenly alert.
He didn’t respond.
He just stared at the screen—cold, silent—and then said, “Stay upstairs. Lock the door.”
“Saint—”
“I said lock it.”
His voice wasn’t angry. It was deadly.
I backed up slowly, unsure whether the chill down my spine was fear… or excitement.
Whoever was outside that warehouse door wasn’t welcome.
And something told me I was about to find out just how dark Saint’s world really was.
- Writer
