“I don’t want to.” I cross my arms and look up at him, trying not to show how he affects me. I’m not scared. His attention makes me feel like a livewire has hit me in the chest.
“Princess, put it back on. Don’t cause trouble.”
But I want to cause trouble. I’m so sick of being a good girl, doing what I’m told, what’s expected of me.
Sin stays in my face for another minute, silently trying to intimidate me, and I bet it would work on most. The menace in his eyes isn’t even close to matching the way Grant looked atme as he assaulted me in my dressing room hours before our wedding.
This doesn’t even compare.
He shifts, revealing Saint behind him.
Those hazel eyes narrow at me. Unhappy. That power pose of his again, like it’s going to make me crumple and fall in line. Fuck that.
Saint picks up his vest and places it over my shoulders. Still heavy.
We stare at each other. My arms still crossed. And neither of us budge for a long time.
Or at least, it feels like a long time.
He’s waiting me out. I hate how it makes me feel like a petulant child. The longer I wait, the worse it feels. Without any words, he reminds me how much trouble I’ve already brought to him. And I’m being an asshole by throwing it back in his face.
Dropping my arms, it takes me a beat before I push my arms through the arm holes.
“Let’s go.”
My feet are moving before I can catch up, but Saint doesn’t let me stumble. He steers me downstairs to his room—the one I’ve been sleeping in without him—and he stays in the doorway, standing with his arms crossed.
It only confirms my feeling like a prisoner. That might not be a fair assessment, but it’s hard to argue with my emotions.
I shove the vest off onto the bed, not disrespectful enough to toss it on the floor. I turn, hands on hips and stare at him across the room.
“Wow, I think this is the first time you’ve stepped in this room in three days. It’s yours, isn’t it? Has all of your stuff in it.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where he’s been sleeping, but I’m afraid the answer will be another woman’s bed.
Saint’s jaw flexes, shoulders, hands. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
“And that means ignoring me completely. Your vest is supposed to suffice? Aren’t people going to question if this marriage is real if you don’t spend any time with me?”
He stalks a few steps closer, and the room shrinks. But I’m not afraid. I’m excited.
“People are already talking.”
“You took my vest off.”
Exasperated, I drop my hands, ready to stomp my foot. “It’s not enough if you’re not there to back up what it represents. Say what you want to your men, but they don’t believe you. You’re giving them no reason to. And if you don’t want to be the one to claim me, there are other men here who do.”
A few more steps, the space between us shrinking, tightening my skin with anticipation.
“You want them to?” Saint’s voice is soft, low, and it sends a new wave of desire through me. It’s stupid to want him this much.
Even if he is my husband.
“What I want is not to be floating adrift without an anchor.” We stare at each other for another extended moment. It’s full ofexpectation, and if I’m not wrong—which I’m typically not, I’ve spent my whole life learning to read people, a life skill I had to learn early to survive—he’s attracted to me, too.
He’s just trying to be a good man, and he knows how intimidating he is.
I want him more because of it.
“Do you want me to sleep in this bed with you?”
