BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Nine-1

She now knows the truth, the truth I was trying so hard to keep from her because the look in her eyes will haunt me forever. I can only offer her pain, but I’m a sick bastard who gets off on her tears because they mean I’m one step closer to breaking her, to getting Zoey back…

Day 11I CAN’T SLEEP, and that’s not because I’m not tired. I’m utterly exhausted, but I’m way past being able to slip into a comatose state and forget the past eleven days.

Yesterday, after Saint revealed the truth, I staggered to the hut, needing time to process everything he revealed. Even though it seems so farfetched, I can’t deny the logic. I hate that it makes sense because it means I married a lying asshole who never loved me at all. All I was to him was a pawn, his get out of jail for free card.

I was thankful Saint didn’t come find me because I needed time alone. So I laid on the rough, wooden floor and stared up at the leafy ceiling, wondering what to do now. When the sun set and gave way to the full moon, I was thankful for the darkness as it seemed easier to accept the deceit.

My stomach growled, and my throat was parched, but the thought of consuming anything made my belly turn.

Well into the early hours of the morning, the bugs and mosquitos buzz around me, having a field day biting me any chance they get. Slapping my arm, I sit upright, brushing back my hair with a sigh.

I’m restless, hungry, tired, and nothing I do alleviates my agitation. I feel like hitting something because each time I think about what Saint said, my temper seems to surge. He showed no remorse and even made me feel like some pathetic airhead for not seeing through Drew’s lies.

The knife against my breast burns as if it’s a sign of what I can do to claim back a small piece of my soul. If it wasn’t for Saint, I wouldn’t be here. Yes, Drew may have orchestrated this entire thing, but Saint didn’t have to agree to it. He could have told Popov what a lowlife psychopath he was and gotten a new job.

But he has no qualms about being a hitman. Kidnapping and murdering come naturally to him, it seems. Drew isn’t here, but Saint is. And I have every intention of making him pay for what he did.

I spring up before I chicken out, adrenaline coursing through me as I leap over the edge of the hut and reach for the rope. The fact I can’t see makes my descent a little easier, but I don’t take as long this time because I am amped on revenge.

Strips of my dress catch in the light breeze, signaling the direction of the shore. I have no idea if Saint is here, but I work on pure instinct. Reaching for the Swiss blade in my bra, I charge through the foliage, ignoring the excruciating pain in my feet because that can’t compare to the agony within.

I know he will probably disarm me before I get within five feet of him, but being in control drives me forward. Just as I storm out from between the trees, ready to tackle Saint where he hopefully sleeps, a sight I was not expecting to see flashes before me.

I freeze because seeing Saint waist deep in water, the full moon illuminating his stature, simmers my fury. Standing still with his face tipped toward the heavens, he skims the water with the tips of his fingers. Something about him appears so pensive.

His angel wings come alive under the moonlight, reminding me of the first time I saw them. I was as mesmerized then as I am now. Someone who delivers such punishment to people bearing something so angelic seems so wrong.

But it adds to the mystery of who Saint is. I may know why Drew did what he did, but I’m still no closer to figuring out what’s in it for Saint. He’s not doing it for the money. But I think it’s safe to say he’s doing it for Zoey.

So my next question is, who is Zoey?

Sneaking up on him while he’s unarmed suddenly feels so wrong, so I decide to bench my vengeance for the moment and try to get some sleep. However, what I see next is confirmation I may not move from this spot ever again.

Even though what I’m witnessing is crystal clear, it’s still hard to believe. But there is no mistaking the sight of Saint’s left hand dipping into the water as he strokes himself. It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, so to speak, but his tempo soon increases.

Through the still night, I can hear his husky inhalations and the sloshing of water as he pleasures himself. I am transfixed, hooked on the utterly intoxicating and completely taboo sight. I should turn around because that’s what any respectable woman would do.

But my morality was questioned the first moment Saint laid his hands on me, and I liked it…a lot.

I’m shrouded by the shadow of the trees, so I remain hidden, unable to look away as Saint continues to stroke his shaft, his muscles rippling as his rhythm builds. Not being able to see is a potent wickedness as my curious mind begins to conjure up images of what Saint would look like.

The thought of his c**k has a wetness gathering between my legs, and I instantly squeeze my thighs together, ashamed, but the friction only makes it worse. Watching with bated breath, I’m hypnotized by the sway of his back as he rocks with the rhythm of his hand.

The sound of his strokes intensifies, only adding to the fire burning within me. I imagine the slickness of his skin combined with the hardness of his shaft. I am certainly no expert on the matter as I can count on one hand how many c***s I’ve seen in the flesh, but the thought of Saint’s has a whimper escaping.

A groan slips past his lips as he arches his head farther back, the slapping of his flesh combined with the spattering of water indicating he’s close. This rugged beast takes what he wants. His arm works frantically, and I lean forward, desperate for a closer look.

It seems to go on for minutes, and my mind wanders to this man’s stamina. I’ve seen him kill a roomful of men without breaking a sweat. He is commanding, strong, and in control. And watching him jerk himself off is no different.

The moon is my beacon, highlighting Saint in all his glory as his body tightens before a low moan fills the air and his back bows. The moan soon turns into a hoarse growl as he curses in Russian. The sound has me biting the inside of my cheek, my knees buckling at the sight of him coming.

That was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t even see the whole thing. But the mystery is what turned me on and has my arousal trickling down the inside of my thigh.

His head hangs low as his raspy breaths evoke my body to swell, frantic for a release too. But once again, shame overcomes me, because I shouldn’t respond to him this way, but I do…time and time again.

Memories of when his fingers were on me, in me, only stoke this fire, and the temptation to soothe this ache between my legs overwhelms me, but then I remember his cruelness. I remember everything he’s done to me—the humiliation he makes me feel—and my high soon fades.

I came out here to teach him a lesson, but once again, it seems he’s taught me something. Whatever I feel for him seems to be strengthening and evolving, no matter how badly I don’t want it to.

Once Saint’s breathing returns to normal, he cups some water and passes it over his body and through his hair. He sweeps his wet locks back, and the sight is too much. Placing the knife back into my bra, I turn the way I came and creep through the jungle and away from the image of Saint exploding with a guttural moan.

My flesh is warm and ripe, but the farther away I walk, the need soon simmers. When I get to the hut, without delay, I reach the rope and climb it, desperate to get away from what I just saw. Memories of why I went there fade because Drew seems to be the furthest thing from my mind.

What is wrong with me?

Curling into a fetal position on the hard floor, I close my eyes and promise not to think about what I just saw. But through the darkness, no matter how hard I try to lock them away, I see Saint’s angel wings and hear his ardent moans when he came; it’s the lullaby which lulls me to sleep.

I wake to my stomach growling.

Propping open an eye, I see that it’s daylight, which means I slept for a few hours. Rising slowly, my body screams in protest. Everything hurts. My mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert.

Reaching for a bottle of water, I crack open the lid and take a small sip, testing to see if it’s any good. Apart from being hot, it tastes like heaven, and I throw back the entire contents. Once water fills my belly, it gurgles, hinting it needs to be filled with food.

Unsure where Saint is, I decide to head down to the beach to grab a change of clothes. He mentioned a pond filled with rainwater, which is screaming my name. I’ll bathe and then think about what to eat.

The descent down the rope is a little easier, but I will be glad when I’m in underwear and a pair of shorts. Not to mention shoes. I stagger through the rocky terrain, flinching as the soles of my feet are raw.

Following the trail I left yesterday, I find the shoreline easily enough. Memories of what I saw early this morning crash into me, but I put them out of my mind and focus on bathing and finding food. The box with my clothes sits where I left it, so I open it up and grab the toiletry pack, underwear, denim shorts, a white tank, and some tennis shoes.

Saint’s bag with his journal and sudoku book is nowhere to be seen.

Just as I close the lid, a rustle from the trees has my head snapping up. Saint emerges with his hands filled with coconuts. When we lock eyes, he pauses but soon recovers.

He’s ripped his pants into shorts, and the jagged edges cover his knees, but he’s still topless. He looks rugged and rough as his beard has grown and an elastic band ties his hair back. The shorter strands have slipped free from the tie, and it seems the saltwater has given him edgy beach waves.

His body rivals Michelangelo, and all the ink just adds to the appeal. I really wish he’d put on a shirt because seeing him this way just cements my attraction to him.

I don’t know where we stand, seeing as the last time we spoke was when he exposed the ugly truth. My heart feels heavy when I remember Saint’s confession. “Sold you in a game of poker!”

Frowning, I avert my gaze, not wanting him to see my eyes grow wet with tears.

“I found some coconuts,” he says, breaking the silence. “With the bottled water, I’ll bring it down here and keep it in the water so it stays cool.”

Good idea.

Nodding, I stand, gathering my clothes to my chest. “Where is the pond?” I ask, my voice small.

“I’ll show you,” he replies, walking over and dumping the coconuts near the box.

Up close, it’s difficult not to replay what I saw him do, but I nod, hoping my inner thoughts don’t give me away.

He leads the way, and I follow. However, when we get to the edge of the jungle, I slip on my tennis shoes. A small piece of independence returns when I’m able to walk over the rocky ground without Saint helping me.

We walk the journey in silence, both at a loss for words. I don’t know what I feel. I’m a mixed bag of emotions, but at the forefront is betrayal. No matter how cruel Saint’s words were, I know they were the truth. Drew never loved me; I was merely a pawn in his sick, twisted game.

Not only did he sell me like chattel, but he also took out a life insurance policy, making me feel like nothing but a means to an end—which is what Saint once told me I was. How could I have been such a fool?

However, I focus on where we’re going because I need to know how to get here on my own. When we pass the purple flowering bush, I decide to leave markers so I know where to go in the future. The terrain becomes more compact, so I stop when I can and rip the hem of my dress, tying the material to branches and plants. By the time I’m done, the short hemline exposes much of my legs.