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“???????!” There is no mistaking the happiness in Zoey’s zone. I’ve not heard it before. It sounds almost foreign.
She limps over to her, taking the steps carefully because she’s still unsteady on her feet. When Pavel’s mother sees Zoey’s battered and bruised appearance, she grips her cheeks, and a flurry of Russian spills from her furrowed lips.
Zoey shakes her head, placing a hand over Pavel’s mom’s, clearly trying to soothe her worries. However, when her wise old eyes glare at Alek, it’s clear she believes he’s the cause of her injuries. I’m about to step forward and tell her it was me, but Alek is at my side, gently cupping my elbow to stop my advance.
“She hates me anyway,” he whispers, saving me the wrath. I appreciate the sentiment and nod my thanks.
“I’ll sleep out in the barn,” Saint says, which has me quickly severing our connection. I can’t seem to do anything right.
Pavel’s mom stubbornly shakes her head. But Saint won’t have it any other way. “Are you sure?” Pavel asks, the cloud of smoke drifting from his lips highlighting how cold it is. “It’ll be tight inside, but we can make it work.”
“It’s fine.” Saint waves at Pavel’s mom and turns into the direction of the barn.
But there is no way I am letting him off that easily.
“I’ll stay there too.” I’m hardly in appropriate clothing to be sleeping outdoors, but it’s not snowing—yet.
Saint shakes his head firmly. “No, you won’t. You’re staying inside.”
His bossiness only adds to my determination because even though he’s reprimanding me, at least he’s speaking to me. “No.”
“No?” he questions, arching a surprised brow. I think he was expecting more of an argument, but no is no. There is no need for further elaboration.
I walk toward the barn, but Saint reaches out and grips my forearm. A gasp leaves me because it’s the first time he’s touched me without shuddering. The connection between us is electric, and all thoughts of freezing to death are soon replaced with a searing heat about to consume me whole.
“It’ll get to below minus temperatures,” he says, trying to scare me. But I don’t scare easy. He should know this by now.
“I’ll manage,” I taunt, my cheeks reddening with the excitement of sparring with him this way. My numb toes demand I listen to him, but I’ll happily lose an appendage if it means I get some alone time with him.
His grip on me tightens, which only enflames me further. I match him, stare for stare, daring him to do his best.
“Don’t push me,” he warns, but the threat is music to my ears, and I smirk, challenging him.
When the warm amber to his eye’s swirls to life, I smother my moan. He is coming to life in front of me, and how I’ve missed that fire, that burn which has set me alight time and time again.
Disobeying Saint is what I do best, and if defying him every chance I get will bring him back to me, then call me a sinner. All hail the saints and sinners because it appears I have to be both to save my man from himself.
He slowly pulls me toward him, his towering frame leaving me breathless. I peer up at him from under my lashes. The background fades into nothingness, and it’s only us. “And what are you going to do about it?” I quip, licking my lower lip.
I am burned alive by the amber flash as he eagerly follows the movement. The tension is suffocating, but I bathe in it because this closeness with Saint thrums an electrical pulse straight through me. Images of him taking me over his knee as he spanked me for my insolence flood me, and I can’t suppress the whimper which slips free.
This is the ultimate standoff, one which I will happily lose. He can read my perversion, and when a slanted grin tugs at his supple lips, I see it—the first sign of hope. Who knew defying him would eventually work in my favor?
As much as I want to climb him like a tree, I don’t because this is going to take time. He is broken, but I will help him heal. I don’t care how long it takes or how hard he pushes me away; I’m here to stay.
With that as my mantra, I pry his fingers off me. I need to keep my cool. I’ve tried to be kind, but I should know by now, like me, Saint doesn’t want nice—he wants pain.
“Thought so,” I goad, referring to him standing around, dick in hand as I turn on my heel and make my way to the barn.
A victory walk has never felt more satisfying. That victory is short-lived, however, when I open the door and see that I’ll be sharing my lodgings with sheep, chickens, and a cow. But I suck it up. I’ve made my bed, or rather, I’ve made my hay bale, so it’s time I laid in it.
The door slamming behind me has me humming under my breath calmly. He is watching me test out a few bales of hay as one would if shopping for a new mattress. They all feel the same, but I toss my backpack onto the farthest one away from him.
“Comfortable?”
“Very,” I reply, happily perching on the edge of my new bed and crossing my ankles as I look at him. “This one has my name on it.” I bounce up and down to prove my point. The coarse straw pokes me in the ass, but I smile, nonetheless.
Saint doesn’t appreciate my humor as he folds his arms across his broad chest. “What are you doing?”
