Then there’s the enigma of Saint. I’m supposed to marry that man. And even though it’s in name only, the dreams I had of him last night…before the nightmares took over…
If Sin had been just a little earlier, would he have heard me moan instead of struggle? Would he still have barged in?
Because the things Saint did to me with those big, rough hands of his…they send a pang between my thighs that has me shiftingunder the sheets. What would it feel like for him to touch me like that?
What would it be like for him to want me that way?
He’d run out of here so fast after unbuttoning the back of my dress. It seemed like torture to him. Surely, I’m not his type. Someone he has to protect constantly, so inexperienced he would have to teach me what he likes.
Heat licks up me again, and the image of his face dropping to my core has me scrambling from under the sheets.
And I’m up, ready to poke around. To distract myself.
I can’t let this circle back around in my thoughts, or I’ll frustrate myself more.
The cool air helps settle my racing thoughts.
It’s time to investigate. To poke around the room, but there’s not a lot to see.
Clothes.
Boots.
A locked cabinet in the closet that I imagine holds weaponry of some kind. It’s nothing like the gun safe in my dad’s office, but it serves a similar purpose.
Along the top of his closet shelves are boxes. Most of them hold gloves, shoes, and holsters. I’m surprised by the one suit he has in the back, shiny shoes, tie, cufflinks included. It’s a nice one. Expensive by the feel. No brand that I know.Corneliani. Italian if I had to guess.
It’s not part of the world I invested myself in. I liked quality garments, but ones that kept me from gaining attention in a room full of people who thrived on reasons to cut you down, pick you apart, and spread lies.
Besides, I had my mother to pick the stores I shopped in, a personal stylist to ensure I represented my father the right way whenever I was in public.
In the back corner up at the top, a place I’m precariously balancing on a bag of clothes and military-looking gear to reach, I find a small, wooden box with a nice latch. It has my heart beating faster because it looks handmade, stained a deep cherry red, and worn around the latch.
I can’t resist, although I know I should. I’ve poked too much not to take a peek. At least.
But when I flip the latch and open it carefully, I’m greeted with papers. Folded notes. Faded pictures.
I more than want to riffle through and read every one of them, but when I slip the top picture out from under the loose papers, my heart twists.
A young version of Saint peers back with the same intense eyes. He’s in a military uniform, hair shaved tight to his head. A five or six-year-old boy is clinging to his shoulders as he holds the kid easily. His son. Same nose. Same chin. Poutier mouth.
One that matches the woman on the other side of the boy, her smile small but lovely. And she’s beautiful. It’s not just her features, which are symmetrical at first glance. Her essence is vibrant, inviting, captivating.
I put the photo back. I don’t want to dig into something so personal quite yet.
Because whatever happened to them, it’s more than I can poke at right now.
A knock sounds at the door, and I quickly stuff everything back in place before I answer it.
Saint fills the doorway, so much bigger than I remember from last night. He’s looking down at me with a closed off expression, but he can’t hide the way his pupils dilate when he sees me.
My skin tightens.
“Did the clothes Doc brought you not fit?” His voice is flat but his throat works.
Right, I’m still in his oversized shirt and nothing else. My flimsy, lacy bra and matching underwear are hanging in the bathroom to dry. They were meant for my honeymoon.
I bite my lip and turn to the pile still sitting on the low dresser beside my violin case. I go to them: cut off shorts and a flimsy tank top. Boots. And oversized leather vest. “You expect me to wear this?”
