Saint (Angelview Academy #1) - E.M. Snow Page 0,27
at you? You deserved it so get over yourself!”
“Because you were never supposed to be here,” he clarifies, tilting his head slightly, the darkness casting a dangerous shadow over the outline of his face. I hate my brain for immediately thinking he looks beautiful right now. Like a fallen angel. “There’s still time to go back to your trailer park, Mallory. I’ll even buy the ticket for you.”
“No.” I push away from him, my hands thumping his chest hard. I turn to leave, but he’s faster than me. He snatches my wrists and yanks me to him. Our breaths collide, a fusion of weed and whiskey, vodka and cranberry, and I give my lungs time to settle down before I grind out, “I’m. Not. Going. Fucking. Anywhere.”
He chuckles again, this one even more taunting than the last. “You silly little masochist.”
“You’re a shit human being, Saint,” I say in a breathless whisper through my teeth. “The world isn’t yours. People aren’t pawns. I’m not—”
He stops me with his hand. Not on my mouth, but on my body. His fingertip trails up my thigh, stealing a gasp from my lips and a flush from my skin. His touch is rough. His stare sandpaper. And his smile…
I shudder from head to toe at the vicious twist of his lips because nobody should be able to do that. Appear desirable and yet so godawful at the same time.
“Yes, you are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have followed me up here like a lost lamb,” he drawls. Heat floods my body, and I clamp my thighs together before he can go any higher. Before he realizes that his words are weapons in more ways than one. “If you weren’t my pawn, you wouldn’t be ready to let me dive in at the word go.”
He almost looks surprised when I stumble backward. Trembling, I swivel around so that he doesn’t see the emotions—shame, disgust, desire—going to war on my face.
There really must be something wrong with me.
Something fucked and corrupted deep in my core.
What other explanation is there for the butterflies in my stomach and the way my skin practically cries out for more of whatever … that was?
And it only gets worse, so much worse, when I feel his body against the back of mine. He bends his head until his mouth brushes my ear. At first, he doesn’t say a word. He just puffs shallow breaths into my hair as his intoxicating scent—the aroma of money and privilege—wafts over me. Then he opens his mouth, his words emerging in a low growl.
“Why am I doing this to you?” he repeats the question I’d asked when I thought I had the upper hand. “Because you’re mine, Mallory. To break. To hate. To do whatever the fuck I please to until you give me what I want.”
“And what’s that?” I whisper.
“Leave.”
9
I wake up Monday morning exhausted from the second sleepless night I’ve had in a row. The events from Friday night’s party keep playing on repeat in my mind, specifically my confrontation with Saint. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get that toxic prick out of my head. I can still feel his hand on my thigh, as if each fingertip was branded into my skin so I’d be haunted by the scars of his touch for the rest of my life. That night, I ran from him like he was a monster about to devour me, and I’m glad I did. After he declared me his to do with as he pleased, I knew I was in more danger with him than I’d anticipated. I’d fled back to the party and the safety of my friends, denying him the thrill of whatever he might have had planned for me.
In real life, that’s how it went down, but in my dreams…
In my dreams, I stayed.
In my dreams, I let his fingers continue their exploration, touching and caressing parts of my body that I’ve been determined to ignore for months. In my dreams, he’s not gentle, but I don’t care. I don’t want gentle. I want angry and brutal and rough. Saint gives me what I want, again and again and again.
My dream is so vivid, I wake up hot and sweating, on the verge of something I’ve not felt in almost a year, but I never quite manage to tip over into that mindless abyss before I’m conscious again. It freaks me out so much, I’m afraid to sleep.