"But you don't want to see it. Want to keep pretending I'm just some asshole who comes in at eleven for our appointment." He drops the shirt on the floor, revealing his tattooed chest, smeared with dried blood. "Too bad. I'm not going to let you bury your fucking head in the sand about why we are here.
He stalks toward me, and I stand automatically, trying to find an escape.
"Saint—"
His green eyes are dark, feral. This is bloodlust. Adrenaline. He should not be near me right now. It's not safe.
I feel like prey, and I don’t like it.
"I want to see it on your perfect skin," he says, voice low. Dangerous. "The blood. Want to mark you with someone else's death. Because it's either their blood or yours, princess. And I know you'd rather it be theirs."
It's a barely veiled threat, and a reminder that violence is always close, always possible. Saint has been putting on a veneer of civility, but this is the who he really is. A monster.
He reaches me, hands finding my waist. His palms leave rust-red prints on the white silk of my nightgown.
I should fight. Should demand he shower. Should do something other than stand here, frozen, as he pulls me against him.
But I don't.
Because under the horror, under the disgust, there's something else.
Something dark and twisted that responds to the danger. To the evidence of what he is. To being claimed by someone capable of this violence.
He kisses me, and I taste the coppery blood on his lips
I should pull away.
Instead, I kiss him back.
He makes a sound, surprise, maybe, and his hands tighten on my waist. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. His tongue invades my mouth, and I let it. I allow him to consume me.
He pushes me back onto the bed, climbing over me. Blood transfers from his skin to mine, smearing across my collarbone, my chest. Marking me just like he said.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back to look at the red on my skin. "You're so goddamn beautiful like this. Like art."
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my nightgown up, finding me wet.
He freezes.
"You're—" He looks at me, something shifting in his expression. "You're turned on."
Shame floods through me. Because I am. God help me, I am. There’s some dark part of me that is attracted to this part of Saint. The monster.
I don’t understand it, but it calls to me.
Not that I’m going to admit it.
"No—"
"Don't lie." He pushes a finger inside me, and I gasp, arching my back. I'm sensitive. "You're soaked, Gemma. The blood, the violence," he chuckles. "It gets you hot just like it did before.”
"That's not?—"
"It is." He pulls his hand away, brings his fingers to his mouth. Tastes me mixed with blood. My eyes zero in on his lips. "Interesting."
He undoes his belt, pushes his pants down. Settles between my thighs.
"Let's try something different tonight." That's the only warning I have before he enters me.
