Even though I said the words out loud for emphasis, irritation piped its way around my gut, and with it, a subtle twinge between my thighs grew, more potent with each breath, reminding me of what he’d done to me.
First the lust, then the pain.
Two contradicting opposites but both performed by the same man.
Saint.
I think that had been the defining moment of when I’d matured, when I’d evolved from a teenager into a woman, experiencing emotions for the first time. Now I understood why it stayed with me and about to rain hellfire on my unprepared heart again. And if that wasn’t enough, the cycle repeated itself.
Upload of sweetness followed by a download of pain, both performed by the same man.
Sebastian
Only to discover Saint Sebastian Sinclair was just one man who owned and broke my heart, twice.
How was I going to sit in his class and listen to that deep voice for the rest of the year, ignoring the icy hot tingles down my spine or watch those beautiful eyes caress me with casual indifference. How would I pretend not to be affected by him?
Now, two days later, I stared down into the garden below my window. Dad was teaching Eliana the workings behind baseball. A sport she suddenly found interesting. Added to that, the anime t-shirt paired with ripped jeans was not her usual dress code. Something had changed since we came to live with dad. As if someone had flipped a switch and I became the more feminine one while Eli turned tomboyish. It seemed like she’d found her teenage spirit again. I was happy that she was not only rediscovering her stolen years, but she didn’t need to fear my mother anymore.
I smiled when the ball she hit bounced off dad’s head before he caught it. Watching her laugh unrestrained after the misery we’d endured under my mother’s roof was comforting. Only, my insides were anything but calm. Hate festered in my blood cells. Abhorrence for a man who’d broken my spirit once before, followed me since that morning. And the reason why I was sitting here alone, pondering what I’d done wrong instead of being outside on this sunny day tossing the ball with my father and sister.
Wishing I’d never set eyes on Saint, ever, I grabbed the latest encyclopaedia dad had bought me two days ago, I flipped through the pages trying to read, hoping it would block images of Saint from surfacing. Honestly, I didn’t know which hurt more. Me making a fool of myself by falling for him or Saint refusing me once more.
“How’s my little sapphire?”
My eyes flew to the doorway. “Aunt Trina,” I gasped, vaulting off the window seat. “Oh, my God, it’s so good to see you. How did you know I needed you? You’re like my fairy godmother, you heard my prayer,” I rambled on like an insane chatterbox, not giving her a chance to get a word in edgewise.
Finally, when I shut up and tears overwhelmed me, she held me at arm’s length. Her beautiful green eyes roved over my face, dropped down my body before meeting my eyes again. “God, you’ve become a sight for sore eyes, Levana. If you haven’t by now, you’re going to break a few hearts, soon.” She kissed my brow, pushing my hair back from my face.
Although I blushed from the comment, I couldn’t stop the trigger of unhappiness that clouded the idea. I’d made a fool of myself in front of Saint. Even though I tried to hide it with a smile, Aunt Trina was very perceptive.
“What’s wrong, darling? You look like someone’s just crushed your heart instead?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I mumbled, turning to take my place at the window seat again.
Aunt Trina followed and sat down next to me. She reached for my hand, linking her fingers with mine. “Levana, I didn’t rush back here the first chance I got, to see you sad. Tell me what’s wrong, please.”
My lip between my teeth, I drew circles on my thighs with my free hand then sighed. “You remember the man from the ritual, Saint. The one that sent me away without taking my virginity?” I glanced at her. She nodded. “He’s here.”
I felt her grip tighten on my fingers. “Here? As in San Francisco?” At my nod, she frowned. “Did you have any interaction with him.” Heavy concern shrouded her words.
“Oh, Aunt Trina, he’s my teacher and dad’s friend.”
“What?” She shot up from the seat, her hands on her hips, her laugh filled with disbelief. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“He’s been coming to the house for the last month helping dad with some project.”
She tapped an index finger against her lip, her expression curious. “Your dad’s friend, interesting.” Then she sat down again. “What’s his name?”
“Sebastian Sinclair.”
I could’ve sworn her face paled, but I wasn’t quick enough to decipher the reaction because it immediately switched to a smile. “So, why has this Saint Sinclair got my favourite girl all ready to cry her eyes out, when I walked in?”
My cheeks burning with embarrassment, I shifted my gaze to the open window for a moment. Then I looked back at her again. Her expression the usual tenderness I always found there. She was one person I could tell my deepest, darkest secrets. We were that close. She’d never judge, nor would she turn a blind eye. If anything, she’d guide me.
“Go on, sapphire, remember my advice. Never bottle your feelings, if you do—”
“Some bubbles would be messy despite the sweetness,” I finished for her. It was at a Thanksgiving dinner when she’d given me my first taste of champagne along with the free advice. I was merely twelve then and had gone through a traumatic experience at school.
