17. Santo
Chapter 17
Santo
I need to get away from her.
Away from her scent. Away from soft, supple skin and the sheer, agonizing temptation of her.
I didn’t expect her to let the dress fall. And when it did— fuck. My cock begged for escape.
She threw herself at me. Not out of desire. Not out of want. But for duty .
And I wanted her.
I want her.
I could’ve had her—pushed her back against the bed, buried myself so deep inside her there’d be nothing left between us but heat and sweat and surrender.
And she would have let me.
But she doesn’t want me.
I saw it. The vulnerability in her eyes, the way her hands trembled.
I would have ruined her.
And if I’m going to take her, if I’m going to own her , it won’t be like that.
Not like some transaction, some contract to uphold.
She will come to me willingly.
I need to get miles away from her. A door isn’t enough. These walls aren’t enough.
The need to consume her, to possess her, is too much .
I need to burn it off.
Before it burns me alive.
Without a second thought, I grab my keys and head for the car parked out front.
The drive is a blur—a mess of streaking city lights and rage curling under my skin, hot and relentless.
I need to hurt something.
I need to punish someone.
I pull into the familiar back entrance of Opulent, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Alessandro leans against the wall, chatting up Rachel—the redhead who never seems to take a hint. He glances up as I stride past, his expression shifting.
He knows why I’m here.
I give him a hard nod. He immediately excuses himself from his admirer, falling into step beside me.
“Santo! What brings you by tonight?” His voice brims with false cheerfulness.
As if he doesn’t already know.
“Business.”
The single word grates from my throat as I push past him, moving through the club with purpose, with barely leashed fury.
The atmosphere hits like a punch to the gut.
Loud music vibrates through the floors, pounding against my chest, syncing with my restless pulse. Hazy lights flicker across glittered corsets and bare skin, painted lips and drunken smiles.
Their joy is cheap. Fleeting. Meaningless.
I head straight for the concealed door leading to the basement.
Alessandro keeps up, silent now, smart enough not to ask questions.
Opulent’s basement is a world away from the glitter and the glamour above. Upstairs is for pleasure. Down here is for punishment. It’s here that we deal with the men who deserve pain.
The ones who harm the women in our organization.
The ones who think strength is meant for breaking rather than protecting.
Weak men. Disgraces.
Tonight, it will serve another purpose.
Tonight, this room, these men, will be my outlet.
I roll my shoulders, exhaling slow, steadying myself for what comes next and step inside.
The air is thick, damp, stifling. The walls reek of blood, sweat, and fear.
Three men are chained to the concrete wall, their gaunt, frantic eyes flickering under the dim light.
Human waste.
Each of them has their own sob story, their own excuses, their own troubled pasts that stopped mattering a long time ago.
I stop in front of one.
His features are unremarkable—except for the nasty scar slicing down his face.
My doing.
A reminder of what happens when men like him forget their place.
I step into his space, close enough that he has to feel the heat of my presence.
“Remember me?” My voice is low, sharp—a blade sliding under the skin.
His breath catches. His wide, terrified eyes flick to Alessandro, then back to me.
Fear.
Good.
I grip his tattered shirt and yank him upright, his body weak and trembling. “Because I remember you.”
Then, I release him. He crumbles.
Pathetic.
“Alessandro.” I don’t break my stare from the whimpering man in front of me. “Take off the restraints.”
There’s a beat of hesitation.
Then, Alessandro pulls a key from his pocket. Metal scrapes against metal as the chains unlock, and the man collapses to the floor.
I barely glance at Alessandro before snarling, “Get out.”
No hesitation this time.
He nods, stepping back toward the door, but not before lingering. As if second-guessing leaving me alone. The door slams shut behind him. Silence descends—thick, suffocating. The only sounds left are ragged breaths.
His.
Mine.
The man forces himself to stand, but his legs buckle. He drops again.
He doesn’t fight. They never do at this point.
The ones who survive more than a day down here know better.
I crack my knuckles, stepping closer. “Last chance to plead innocence before we get started.”
He shakes his head violently, tears already pooling.
Some part of me acknowledges his fear. Recognizes it as a testament to my own power, but most of me is too far gone to care. I don’t waste another second.
I pull back and swing.
Bone cracks under my fist. Pain explodes through my knuckles. A sweet, biting relief. For the first time tonight, I feel something.
And it’s not her .
I swing again. Flesh gives. Blood spatters.
I lose count of the hits.
The roar in my head drowns out the cries. Each punch is a release. Each blow is a distraction.
Each crack of bone is a moment where I don’t feel her soft, sweet-scented skin. Her innocent eyes staring up at me with the glaring fact that she deserves more than a man like me.
A monster like me.
***
I pull into the estate, but instead of parking in front I veer toward the underground garage. The car hums to a stop beneath my home, safe from prying eyes. I pass my gym and indoor pool, moving straight for the elevator.
A quick press of my thumb against the scanner, and the hidden elevator hums to life, carrying me up through the walls of my home. It was installed as a precaution—an escape route if an attack ever came. Usually, I’d take it all the way up to the master bedroom closet, but that room belongs to Vasilisa now.
The thought of her sends a sharp, unwelcome ache through me. This house is hers as much as it’s mine now, and tomorrow, I’ll have to show her around. I push the thought aside and take the stairs up to my new room.
Light spills from under the master bedroom door. It’s almost three in the morning. She should be asleep.
I should keep walking.
Instead, my feet betray me, carrying me to her door before I have a chance to second-guess myself. My hand moves before my mind does, twisting the knob. The door gives way without resistance.
The dim light casts a soft glow around the sitting room, illuminating Vasilisa perched on the window nook. In her hand, she holds a book - not just any book, but Vita Nuova .
My heart aches at the sight of her.
She runs a hand through her glossy hair, the shadows play across her face, accentuating her features. Light catches on the delicate curve of her jaw, the gentle slope of her neck. Her plush lips move soundlessly as she reads, captivating me in their every movement.
The sight is mesmerizing, but my attention is soon drawn to what she’s wearing - or rather, what she’s barely wearing.
Lingerie. Sheer white lace clings to her body, teasing, barely concealing anything. The transparent robe draped over her is open, useless, falling off one shoulder like an afterthought.
The delicate lace bra hugs her breasts perfectly and it’s enough to break my resolve. Her smooth stomach leads down to lace underwear that leaves nothing to the imagination - held on by mere string. And those legs - smooth and perfect - are crossed provocatively, daring me to touch her.
Heat licks through me, hunger sharp and instant.
She startles, eyes snapping to mine, her breath hitching in a quiet gasp. My need for her coils tighter.
She sets her book aside and slides off the window nook, her steps measured, almost hesitant, as she closes the space between us. Her small hand reaches for my wrist, tugging gently, urging me to follow.
I let her lead, watching every move she makes, every breath that causes her breasts to rise and fall. Her eyes flick over me, assessing, studying, and it takes everything in me to stay in control.
She stops in front of the couch, her useless robe still clinging to her frame, I want to rip it off.
Her hand presses lightly on my shoulder, guiding me down.
I sit.
Captivated by her.
She stands between my legs, close, delicate fingers trailing up the buttons of my shirt. One by one, she works them open, brushing against my skin with every movement. Her touch is light, but it burns .
The subtle scent of her sweet cashmere perfume wraps around me, tightening the hold she already has on me. I clench my fists to keep from grabbing her, from dragging her against me and tasting every inch of her.
Then she speaks.
“Where are you hurt?”
The words hit like ice water.
She isn’t trying to seduce me.
My hand grips her wrist before I even register the movement. She gasps, eyes flicking up to mine, wide with something close to fear.
Only then do I notice the blood splattered across me.
She’s trying to tend to me.
Realizing my hold has tightened, I release her wrist, guilt pressing down like a weight on my chest.
“It’s not mine,” I mutter, my voice rough. “I’m not hurt.”
Some of the tension in her face eases, but she steps back, pulling the robe around herself, as if shielding herself from me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I thought—”
Before she can finish, I stand abruptly, and she stumbles, nearly losing her balance.
My hand catches her waist instinctively, steadying her. For a brief moment, our eyes lock, and I’m struck by the compassion shining in hers.
It’s disarming, unfamiliar , and for the first time in what feels like forever, the darkness inside me ebbs.
Her gaze drops—to my lips.
I rip myself away.
“It’s fine,” I rasp, my voice unrecognizable. “I’m going to shower. You should get some rest.”
I don’t wait for a response. I turn and leave, each step heavier than the last.
A part of me wants to turn back, to stay with her, to feel that fleeting humanity she offers.
But I know better. For her sake, I have to keep my distance.
So I force myself forward, shutting the door on her, on this, on whatever dangerous thing she’s stirring inside me.