58. Saint
Chapter fifty-eight
Saint
T he ring on Princess's finger catches the light, a glimmer that snags my attention and holds it hostage. It's a beautiful band, nothing too fancy (I didn't think she'd like that), but seeing it circling her delicate finger sends a shot of something fierce and possessive through my veins. I know the deal, know this is all pretend, but damn if it doesn't feel like my world just righted itself on its axis.
"Does it fit okay?" My voice sounds more gruff than I intend, but there's an undercurrent of something else—hope, maybe.
Princess twists the ring, her lips tugging into a soft smile that hits me harder than any punch I've ever thrown. "Like it was made for me," she says, that green gaze of hers locking onto mine.
My heart shouldn't be racing this fast. It's crazy. She's not really mine. But as her smile spreads wider, lighting up those eyes, I can't help but think she's the light in the dark I never knew I was stumbling around in.
I went from wanting to dig in and unearth every one of her secrets for my own benefit to...this. I don't ever want to let her go.
"Come on." I reach out, brushing my fingers against hers, feeling that same strange jolt. "We've got shopping to do."
"Where are we going?" There's a lilt of curiosity in her voice as she falls into step beside me.
"Anywhere you want." I smirk down at her, the idea of spoiling her sending a thrill through me. "Well, anywhere Gen wants."
She laughs, a sound that seems too pure for this messed-up world we're living in. "I don't need much, Saint. But I like the sound of that."
"Good." I steer her toward Gen who is waiting to take Princess over to the row of shops, each storefront promising luxury and indulgence. "Because I'm going to enjoy every second of it."
I trail behind Gen and Princess, their voices a soft hum ahead of us. Princess's hands flutter like caged birds as she gestures to the mannequins decked out in the latest fashions, her excitement palpable even from a distance. Yet, despite the animation in her voice, I catch the slight pallor, the hint of seafoam green that's washed over her usual porcelain complexion. She's nervous; I can tell by the way she gnaws on her bottom lip, an action so subtle anyone else might miss it.
"Saint?" Chess nudges me, tilting his head toward the storefronts we pass. "You zoning out on us?"
"Thinking," I admit, my gaze not leaving Princess's back.
Dre falls into step beside me, his scars a stark contrast against the pale skin of his arms. "You do too much of that. What's up?"
"Nothing," I lie smoothly, then shift the topic to more pressing matters. "What're we gonna do about Wes and Preston? Can't let that slide."
"Handled," Chess assures with a dark glint in his hazel eyes that tells me he's already spinning webs in his mind. "Just need to pull the right strings."
"Make it sting," Dre says with a coldness that belies his angelic looks. "They deserve it for what they pulled in the bathroom."
"Agreed." I clench my fists, remembering how close they'd come to hurting her—my Princess. Never again. Not while I'm breathing.
Gen suddenly spins around, her arms spread wide as if embracing the world. "Okay, team! First store—" She points to a boutique that looks like it's straight out of Paris. "Addy needs the full experience."
"Got a plan, Gen?" I ask, nodding toward the boutique.
"Always." She grins, wicked and brilliant. "We hit them hard and fast. In and out. No mercy."
"Sounds like a battle strategy," Dre says with a chuckle.
"Shopping is a battle," Gen fires back, but her smile softens when she looks at her. "But this one's worth every fight."
The blush on Princess's cheeks is fucking adorable. My fingers itch to reach out for her, but I curl them into my palm.
"Let's do this." I push off from the wall I hadn't realized I'd been leaning against, ready to face whatever comes next. For Princess, I'd walk through fire. Or, in this case, a series of high-end boutiques.
"Lead the way, General," Chess quips, saluting Gen playfully before following her charge into the first store.
As we move, I feel the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. We're not just picking out clothes. We're creating armor, building confidence—for Princess. My job is to make sure she shines, like the queen she is. My queen. Temporary or not, she'll know she's royalty today.
The boutique is a whirlwind of silks and satins, a symphony of rustling fabrics as Gen flits from rack to rack, her hands a blur. Princess's eyes are wide as saucers, her gaze darting after Gen like she's trying to follow the flight of a particularly vibrant hummingbird.
"Saint, look at this one," Chess calls out, holding up a deep red dress that promises to hug every curve it touches. Dre chimes in with a leather jacket that's all attitude and defiance.
"For when she wants to feel badass," he says, winking at Princess.
"Guys, slow down," I say. "She's overwhelmed."
"Sorry, Addy," Gen says, suddenly by her side. "We're just excited."
Princess gives a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach those guarded green eyes. "It's okay. I just... don't really know what I like."
"Then we'll find out together," I tell her, plucking a soft cashmere sweater from a nearby table. "This would be warm. Comfortable."
"Comfortable can be chic," Gen approves, adding a pair of sleek boots to the growing pile in my arms.
I catch Princess's eye and there's a flicker of something like gratitude before she looks away, disappearing behind the curtain into the world of mirrors and hangers.
"Give her space," I murmur to the others, depositing our finds on a bench outside the fitting rooms. But when I hear the curtain rustle again and see Princess's reflection in the mirror, lost in a sea of options, I can't help myself. I push through the fabric barrier and close us off from the world.
"Hey," I say softly, watching her turn around, her face a mask of uncertainty. "You need this, Princess—new clothes, a fresh start. But I get it, it's a lot."
She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, those Nordic features etched with stress. "I... I don't even know where to begin."
"Let's start simple." I pick up a sky-blue blouse and hold it against her. "What about this? You don't have to think about whether you should like it or not. Just if you do. So, do you like it?"
Her eyes linger on the blouse, then meet mine. There's a spark there, something igniting. "I do. It's... pretty."
"Then it's settled." I give her an encouraging nod. "That's one for the 'yes' pile. What else do you want to try?"
Her shoulders drop a fraction, some invisible weight lifting. "Can we keep going like this? Just... choosing what I like, not what I'm supposed to like?"
"Exactly like that," I affirm. "This is all about you, Princess. Your choices. No one else's."
"I think...I think I'd like to try some jeans."
"Then we'll grab you jeans to try."
"Okay."
"Is this too much?" I ask, watching Princess's green eyes flicker across the mountain of fabric choices surrounding her. She's a vision of nerves and excitement, a contradiction that suits her more than she probably knows.
She chews on her lip, an unconscious gesture that sends heat straight to my groin. Damn, even in indecision, Princess has an effect on me I can't ignore. "You look like you could use a break," I say, my voice low. "Do you need to relax? I can handle the attendant if you want Chess or Dre—or both—to come in."
Her teeth release her lip as she shakes her head, her blonde locks catching the light of the fitting room. It's like watching the sunrise after a long, dark night; it's stunning, it's warming, and somehow, it's all mine.
"Saint, I..." She starts, then stops, her gaze locked onto mine. The air between us is thick with unspoken words, each one heavier than the last.
I don't push her. I know the value of patience, learned from years of holding my tongue and waiting out the storm of my father's rage. So, I just wait for Princess, because she's worth every damn second of silence.
And then, like the flip of a switch, her decision is made. I see it in the way her shoulders set, the determination that lights up her eyes. Princess steps forward, closing the distance between us, and presses her lips to mine.
The kiss is a promise, a silent vow that speaks louder than any words could. Her softness melds against my hard lines, and the world outside this cramped dressing room fades away. Everything else ceases to exist—it's just Princess and me, learning the language of touch and taste we've been denied for so long.
"Saint," she whispers against my mouth, and fuck if that doesn't seal my fate right then and there.
Pulling back slightly from our kiss, I catch the shimmer of something like wonder in Princess's eyes. It lights a fire inside me, one that rages with the need to protect and claim. "I don't deserve you," I murmur, my voice low and rough with emotion. "But damn if I'm not grateful for this."
Before she can protest, I turn her gently so we're both facing the mirror—her back flush against my chest. There's an audible groan from deep in my throat as I feel her pressed against me, the warmth of her body seeping into mine. Our eyes meet in the reflection, and it's a punch to the gut, seeing the raw honesty there.
"Look at us," I whisper, running my hands down her sides, over the curve of her hips. The sight of my dark, tattooed fingers against her pale skin is intoxicating. She's soft where I am hard, light where I am shadow, and it's a contrast that I never knew I craved until now.
"Saint..." Her voice is a sigh, a delicate sound that sends shivers down my spine.
"Shh." I press a finger to her lips, a command silencing any further words. "You'll need to be quiet, Princess. Can you do that for me? Be a good girl and stay quiet?"
The way her eyes widen at my words tells me everything I need to know. She likes the praise, craves it. And I intend to use that to both our advantages. My hands find the zipper of her skirt, and slowly, ever so slowly, I pull it down. The fabric parts like curtains on a stage, revealing the main act, and then it's slipping down her legs to pool around her feet.
"Good girl," I breathe out, watching her reaction in the mirror. The praise washes over her, and she leans back into me, seeking more. It's a game now, one of silence and reward, and I'm all too willing to play.
"Look at us," I murmur, my breath hot against the shell of Princess's ear, sending shivers through her. My voice is a low hum, filled with the kind of praise I know she responds to. "You're perfect, aren't you? My good girl."
I can see her reflection in the mirror, those green eyes of hers locked onto our intertwined figures. Her lips part slightly, quivering in anticipation as my hand ventures beneath the elastic edge of her panties. The gasp that escapes her is cut by a groan from my own throat as I encounter the slick warmth waiting for me.
"Saint..." she whimpers, the sound barely audible.
"Keep watching," I command softly, keeping my tone steady despite the rush of blood echoing in my ears. "See how much you want this."
I press myself harder against her, my erection a firm line down the cleft of her ass, moving in small circles that mimic the motion of my fingers below. She's so close already, her body responding to each whispered word, each deliberate touch. With every grind, I feel her tense, her breath catching in short, sharp intakes.
As I coax her closer to the edge, her quiet moans become a challenge to contain. She bites down on her lip, trying to muffle the sounds, but it's not enough. In an instant, I cover her mouth with my hand, pressing firmly to trap the cries of pleasure about to spill forth. My heart pounds with the thrill of our secret, the danger of being discovered only adding fuel to the fire.
"Stay silent, Princess," I urge against her ear, my voice a mix of command and plea. "If we get caught I'll have to stop and I don't want to stop."
Her eyes, wide and wild, meet mine in the mirror even as her body betrays her attempt at silence. I watch the exquisite torment play across her features, the desperate need to vocalize her climax warring with the desire to obey. It's a beautiful struggle, one that I'm entirely responsible for—and utterly captivated by.
"Good girl," I breathe out, the words a vow as much as they are praise. Her climax washes over her in silent waves, her inner muscles clenching around my fingers in a rhythm that threatens to pull me under with her. The sight of her biting back her pleasure, the way she strains against the hold of my hand—it's enough to drive me wild.
"Quiet," I hiss, as much to myself as to her, as we ride the razor's edge of discovery. But she's good, so very good, and she manages to keep the world outside that door oblivious to the tempest within.
"Princess," I whisper once more, letting pride lace the syllables, knowing full well the power such simple words hold.
As the tremors of her release begin to fade, I gently extract my fingers, coated with the evidence of her desire. The air is thick with the scent of her arousal, a heady perfume that speaks volumes of the forbidden act we've indulged in. Lifting my hand, I lock eyes with her reflection in the mirror, and without breaking the intensity of our gaze, I slip my fingers into my mouth. Her taste bursts across my tongue—a mix of sweet and sin that has me groaning softly.
"Fuck, you're delicious," I murmur, tongue swirling around each digit as I savor her. Pulling my fingers out, I fix her with a look that's part adoration, part promise. "Such a good girl for me, Princess."
She's panting lightly, her green eyes still locked on mine in the mirror, flitting between confusion and the dawning realization of what she means to me. I can't help but lean down and capture her lips with mine in a tender kiss that says more than words ever could. It's an affirmation of everything unspoken between us, a silent vow that this—whatever this is—is real.
"Try on everything," I say against her lips, voice low and husky. "Find what you like, what makes you feel good. And later, I'll make sure you're rewarded." The words are playful, yet there's a depth to them that echoes through the cramped space of the dressing room.
I give her one last kiss, a soft press of lips that lingers just a moment too long, before stepping back and opening the door. Gen, Chess, and Dre stand there, arms laden with an assortment of fabrics and colors, all potential new pieces for Princess's self-expression.
"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you," I quip, brushing past them with a nonchalant shrug. But inside, my heart is racing, my body still thrumming with the connection to Princess. I smirk, knowing full well that this is only the beginning.