Chapter ten
Aria
The ride back to Saint’s house was silent. Isabella and Jason were in the SUV behind us, flanked by guards, while I sat in the backseat with Saint, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city lights blur past, thinking about my current predicament.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence.
I gritted my teeth, forcing a smile. “Yes, it was… lovely. You scared my friend so badly she damn near fainted.”
He was quick with the rebuttal. “I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t been acting shifty.” His fingers flexed against my thigh, just slightly. “I didn’t miss the fact that you wouldn’t let her answer my question.”
I didn’t respond.
Saint exhaled, his hand shifting, fingertips brushing the edge of the ring on my finger—the one he had given me.
“What would be so terrible about marrying me?” he asked.
I let out a humorless laugh. “I could name a thousand reasons,” I said, twisting his ring around my finger as I held his gaze. “Let’s make a list. One—you’re crazy. Two—you kidnapped me. Three—you’re emotionally manipulative and keep mentioning our childhood, hoping to sway me. Four—you have a God complex.”
He nodded as if he agreed.
I continued. “Five—you think threats count as foreplay. Six—you don’t respect personal space. You’re practically finger-fucking me right now. Seven—you’re possessive to the point of insanity. Eight—you have a whole damn maze to hunt people in, Saint.” I tilted my head, watching him. “Should I go on?”
Saint chuckled like that shit was funny.
“So, you’ve never thought about what would happen if you and I ever met again?”
I exhaled, my stomach twisting. If only he knew I had actually planned to meet him again.
I leaned back against the seat, my lips pressing together before I finally answered.
“Yeah, I thought about it,” I admitted. “We weren’t getting married in my head. I figured we’d catch up, fuck, and go on about our business after.”
His smirk vanished.
Slowly, he wet his lips.
“Catch up,” he repeated, his voice eerie. “Fuck. And then… go on about our business?”
“Yeah,” I said, meeting his gaze head-on. “That’s what normal people do, Saint. They move on, sometimes they fuck before they do.”
His smirk returned, but it wasn’t playful this time. It was dangerous.
“I’m not normal, remember. You called me insane?” he asked, tilting his head. “You think I’d let you treat me like that considering what you mean to me?”
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “Geez, Saint. It was just a thought.” I couldn’t believe it sounded like his feelings were actually hurt.
“No.” His fingers flexed against my thigh, pressing slightly. “It was an expectation. You wanted to fuck me and go on about your business.” His voice rose. “Like I didn’t mean anything to you.”
I rolled my eyes. I wanted to laugh at him. “You have problems.”
“You’re right,” he mumbled. “But don’t worry, wife.” His smirk deepened. “We’ll work on fixing me together.”
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat, pretending I didn’t hear him.
We pulled up to his place a few minutes later.
As soon as the SUV stopped and we got out, I turned to Saint. “I need a minute with Isabella.”
He studied me for a long moment before exhaling and stepping aside. “You have one minute,” he said.
I made my way over to the SUV she had arrived in and pulled her off to the side. Isabella barely moved at first, her body rigid, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her eyes were wide and glossy with unshed tears. Her hands trembled as she clutched at her dress, her knuckles turning white, her chest rising and falling too fast, like she couldn’t get enough air.
I pulled her into a hug, feeling her whole body quiver against mine.
“I’ll get us out of this,” I whispered, holding her tighter. “Just stay sane, okay? We have to be smart.”
Isabella let out a shaky breath, nodding against my shoulder.
Behind me, I could feel Saint’s eyes on us, watching, waiting.
I let her go, then made my way back over to Saint.
“I want to show you something,” he said after entering the house, his voice low and intimate, like we were sharing a secret.
I didn’t argue. He led me upstairs, his hand on the small of my back.
When we reached a bedroom I assumed was his, I braced myself. I thought I knew what was coming—what he wanted. But when he opened the door and I stepped inside, what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.
The room was filled with paintings and drawings, sketches. Dozens of them, maybe more, covering every inch of the walls. And every single one was of me.
There were ones of me from when we met as kids, ones of me as an adult. Some were realistic, almost photographic in their detail, while others were abstract, but they were all unmistakably me.
“How? How did you know what I looked like as an adult?”
“I saw you once,” he said. “With your mother, walking into a restaurant downtown. You were laughing, and I couldn’t look away.”
Saint moved closer to me, his presence already dominating the room, now dominating my space too. He reached out and let his fingers graze the edge of one of the paintings, his eyes fixated on it, dark and intense.
“Why?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate to answer. “These paintings—they’re not just about you. They’re about me, too. They were a way for me to express what I felt about you.”
He stepped back slightly, his eyes still scanning the artwork, almost like he was lost in it.
“You’ve haunted me. Every damn day. You’ve been in my head, my heart, my soul since I was ten. I needed you with me, even if it was just a piece of you. So I painted. I painted and drew you because that’s the only way I could have you.” He looked down at me. “But now, you’re here in the flesh, and you’re mine. And I don’t plan to let you go.”
I shook my head, trying to keep my voice calm, trying to reason with him. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just… decide someone belongs to you. People aren’t possessions, Saint. You can’t own someone.”
He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Why not?” he asked, as if it was actually a question that needed to be answered. “If I want something, I take it. That’s how the world works. That’s how I’ve always lived.”
I took a deep breath, trying to snap him out of it. I was starting to actually have sympathy for him. Did he even know any better? “But it’s not how it should work. I know how you were raised. I understand why you are the way you are. But you can’t make someone live the fantasy you dreamed up.”
He laughed, a full-on belly laugh, like I told him a joke or was a joke myself. “You’re here, aren’t you? And we’re getting married. And you’ll stay with me. Because you belong to me. So obviously, I can.”
The sheer madness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know—I could talk, I could beg, I could reason, but it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t listening. He was hearing me, but he wasn’t listening.
Still, I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.
What could I say to someone who had built an entire world around me? Why in the fuck did I find it kind of endearing?
As we stood there, the silence stretching between us, a single truth settled in my chest. I was either going to have to kill him… or be stuck with him.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want to kill Saint.
He reminded me of an abused Doberman I once rescued—Spike.
Wild. Uncontrollable. Snapping and growling at everyone who came near him, except for me. It took time, patience, and a hell of a lot of effort, but in the end, that dog was mine—loyal until the day he died.
Saint was a wild human—one that couldn’t help but be vicious, one that only knew survival and control because no one had ever taught him anything else.
Maybe I’d be able to tolerate him if I thought about him in that perspective.
Could I convince myself that his obsession wasn’t crazy but instinct?
Maybe I needed to practice patience with him instead of resistance.
“Will you lie with me?” he asked, his voice breaking through my thoughts.
The way he was looking at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—made my chest tighten.
I didn’t answer because I knew “no” would have flown out of my mouth. I let him lead me to the bed. Sometimes you had to pick your battles. I wasn’t going to fight him on this. Not in a room full of images of myself.
I lay down. He lay down beside me, his body warm against mine, draping his arm over my waist.
I didn’t know what to feel—anger, fear, confusion, or something else entirely. I just lay there, surrounded by the images of myself, staring at the desk in his slightly cracked office door.