Chapter twelve.
Aria
Two days. That’s how long Saint had given me a break from his madness, like, even he knew he was too much to handle sometimes. Or maybe it was the whole severed head situation that made him take a step back.
For those two days, he’d actually been... normal. We binge-watched Abbott Elementary, and to my surprise, he liked it. He laughed at the jokes. He made comments about the characters. For a brief moment, it almost felt like we existed outside of this twisted reality.
Today, he was back in his true form
“We’re going,” his tone was dismissive. “Get your shoes on.” He had me dressed today in jeans and a t-shirt, still no panties. He had even taken them from the clothes of mine he’d had taken from my place. Who wore jeans with no panties? But I refused to ask for any.
I didn’t move. I wasn’t playing fantasy wedding with this nut.
“I’m not going,” I shot back. “You can bring the cake here, or you can pick whatever you want. I don’t care.”
I could hear him take a step closer.
His patience was running thin; I could see it on his face, and the feeling was fucking mutual. I think he thought we had bonded over him killing the Dillinger’s because I had been cordial for two days. We hadn’t. I stopped trying to talk sense into him because doing so was like yelling into the void.
“This isn’t a negotiation, Aria. We’re going. Now.”
I couldn’t help the scoff that escaped my lips. “Or what?”
I didn’t hear him move, but the next thing I knew, he was in front of me, his hand locking around my wrist. He yanked me forward, forcing me to face him.
“Let go,” I snapped. My fist balled at my side. The manhandling shit was getting old.
“Don’t you hit me, Aria,” he nearly growled. “Remember what I told you.” The way he said it had my hand loosening.
“Don’t grab me then, Sinister.” I had taken to calling him different nicknames that fit him better than his own name.
He reached up and gripped my chin. “Stop calling me that. You know my name.”
“Saint doesn’t fit the heir to hell’s throne,” I tried to shake out of his hold, but he just tightened.
He visibly gritted his teeth. “Call me whatever you want, but you’re going. And if you run, or try to get help,” he whispered the first part, his breath smelling of coffee and caramel. The thought of whether his mouth tasted like it came from nowhere. For just a second, I forgot our circumstance, and my eyes got caught on his plush lips, causing my pulse to quicken and my breath to go shallow. The next thing he said brought me back to reality quickly. “I’ll kill your friends. And then I’ll find you. And when I do, you won’t like what happens next.”
My heart raced, but I held his gaze. “You’re an asshole, you know that,” I bit out.
He was so close I could taste the heat between us. He leaned in closer. It looked as if he was about to kiss me, and I hated that I was anticipating it. But then he pulled back, and there was this half-smirk on his face that made me want to throw a tantrum—real-life stomp my feet and fall to the ground.
“Maybe,” he said, pulling me closer. “But I’m your asshole. So stop fighting me.”
For a split second, I wondered if he was right about us. The other day, he’d made a point I couldn’t shake. What kind of man did a girl like me, who was raised around violence, who lived in a world where love didn’t always fit, end up with? What kind of man could I marry? I was strong-willed, reckless at the mouth, spoiled, prone to violence, and sometimes I wanted what I wanted. I was a lot to handle. I would walk all over a weak man. Saint had a way of reining me in. But did I want that?
My momma wanted grandkids. She kept dropping hints. She was a romantic; she’d probably get a kick out of me marrying the little boy who proposed to me at eight, who I’d gushed about for years.
I was so confused. I yanked free from his grasp.
“I’m not going, and fuck you very much.”
Without another word, he lifted my one hundred and ninety pounds effortlessly off the ground, throwing me over his shoulder.
A gasp skittered past my lips.
“And don’t you hit me,” he warned again, just before I got ready to.
“Put me down!” I yelled, kicking my legs wildly, trying to throw him off balance.
His big ass was strong as fuck, though.
He carried me out of the room. He had guards lining the hallways now. Him killing the Dillinger’s wasn’t sitting right with some of the men who had been invited to his dinner. They were worried he would come for them next. There was plotting.
I kept struggling.
“Look at you embarrassing yourself,” he muttered, his voice calm, like he was bored by my struggles. “And wasting time.”
“I hate you!” I screamed, the words leaving my throat in a guttural shout.
“No, you don’t,” he said, his voice dark and unyielding. “Even if you do, you’re still coming with me.”
I fought, cursed his ass in every language I knew a curse word in. He didn’t care.
By the time we reached the car, I was exhausted from the effort of trying to fight him. He set me down on the passenger seat, and I just glared at him, my fists still clenched in my lap.
“I’m going to make your crazy ass regret this,” I hissed, my voice venomous.
He leaned into me, one hand on my thigh, the other on the doorframe. He ignored what I had said, but I guess calling him crazy or insane had lost its sting since I said it so much.
“You’re being dramatic. When we get to this bakery, you’re going to smile and be happy to be there.”
“What if I punch you in your smug mouth instead?”
He looked at me and laughed.
“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he taunted me and started the car.
In my head, I was screaming, and I wanted to try my best to fuck him up, but he had me at a disadvantage.
When we pulled up to the bakery, I didn’t move. My hands were in my lap, my jaw tight.
Saint turned to me, brushing a strand of hair from my face. I almost slapped his hand, but in the back of my mind, his warning about hitting him kept me from doing it. That pissed me off. He was fucking with my mind now.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice firm. “Walk, or I’ll carry you. And remember what I said. Smile, Aria.”
I walked, but I didn’t fucking smile.
In the small bakery with cupcake wallpaper, the smell of sugar and butter was heavy in the air. Saint sat next to me, his arm slung casually over the back of my chair, his presence dominating the space like always. He was a big fucking tatted-up goon in a suit. I had to admit he looked kind of sexy, though. He smelled good too. The thought irked me. The baker, this cute little granny type with white hair and a pink cardigan, placed a tray of cake samples in front of us.
“These are our most popular flavors,” she said, gesturing to the tiny cakes. “Let me know which ones you like, and we can customize your wedding cake from there.”
I stared at the cakes, my stomach churning. It felt surreal, sitting here with him like we were doing something normal, something people chose to do. Saint, the man who had kidnapped me, was actually planning our wedding like it was a fun activity. He leaned forward, his attention fixed on the cakes as he stabbed a fork into a piece of chocolate. He took a bite, he chewed.
“Too sweet,” he muttered, pushing the plate aside. “What’s next?”
The baker handed him another sample, and he repeated the process. Meanwhile, I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Was I really about to marry this man to save Isabella and Jason’s lives? I had to.
“Aria,” he called me all gruff-like, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “You’re not even trying. Do you want your friends to live or die?” He didn’t even care that the baker lady was standing right there, listening to his unhinged ass.
I forced myself to look at him. “I’m not hungry.”
He frowned, his nostrils flaring. I expected a “eat the cake, Aria” moment, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he turned back to the baker. “We’ll take the vanilla with raspberry filling. Make it three tiers.”
The baker’s hands trembled slightly as she wrote it down. She looked scared as hell, but I didn’t blame her. Saint had that effect on people.