Page 12 of Saint
Upon entry into the house, my first impression was sterile. The home itself had no distinct smell, save for the scent of the ocean behind it. There were no markers of human habitation. No photos lined the bare walls. No decorative elements characterized the space.
It was just a dwelling. White walls permeated the large halls – halls so big that if I stretched my arms to their full length, I still wouldn’t touch the walls. The stairs and floors were comprised of cold, creamy concrete. The light fixtures were generic. The interior possessed unique angles and creative designs throughout – that I assumed could be credited to the architect – but nothing accented those creative expressions.
No razzle.
No dazzle.
No art.
No heart.
Void of enthusiasm, the castle of a house was not a home. Immaculate in its presentation, not a single thing was out of place. While beautiful, it was eerily hollow.
“So,” Saint started as I followed behind him barefoot through the home. We inched up the stairs and turned down an opposing hall, revealing the massiveness of the space. “You can take this room.”
Take.
As in, I’d be staying.
As in, he wasn’t letting me go.
He opened the door to an opulent – but still sterile – bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows. The view from the room spilled out toward the sea and pirated my breath. Tearing my eyes away from the siren-like call of the ocean, I turned to ask him about my freedom, but he was gone.
Several large boxes were resting atop the plush bed, which seemed to call out to me. Upon closer inspection, I noticed my name scrawled out on the gift tags. Without further hesitation, I opened the smaller box to find two pairs of Demure sandals. I remember the design from our past season. It was one of my favorites, created by an intern designer last summer.
With haste, I opened the second box to find a host of Demure dresses, tops, and skirts. There were also several pairs of lingerie and nightwear. Underneath the pile of clothes were a leather-bound sketchbook, pencils, and Micron pens.
He’d discovered my identity, evident in the supposed gifts. The prospect of freedom slipped away with every minute that passed. As beautiful a home, as breathtaking a view, and as thoughtful a gesture as it all was, the unshakeable fact remained:
I was in a gilded cage.
Reluctant to permit another second to pass, I darted from the bedroom. Down the stairs and toward the door, I breezed in search of an exit.
“Victoria.”
Shriveling in size, my heart sank to my toes at the sound of my name being called. I turned in the direction of Saint’s voice to find him positioned in the living room.
“If you leave out of that door, you leave without my protection.
“I’ll take my chances.”
He’d found my exasperation comical, birthing a grin that nearly coaxed me out of my skin. “From a group of deadly sex and drug traffickers? You were the last person Javier was seen with. They’ll be looking for you. There’ll be others on my end with malicious intent as well.”
“Can’t you just… tell them to leave me alone?” Feeling defenseless, I posed the question.
“I don’t know you like that to vouch for you in such a manner. It’s better to keep you close for both our protection.”
The austerity of his statement stifled my will to pursue my freedom. Unsure if his and Javier’s people would come after me, I considered my options.
“What is my alternative?” I swallowed, chancing to return his gaze.
Saint rose. One footstep at a time, he swallowed the space keeping us distant. Instantly, I was assaulted with the scent of sandalwood and coconut. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the dark cargo pants he wore. Relaxed in his stance, he combed over me before speaking again. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up, and we’ll discuss everything after we eat.”
The suggestion was made without an opening for an alternative. I shook my head in woeful agreement and turned on my feet to head back up to the room.
After showering, I stalked down the stairs to the inviting scent of food. Saint was standing in the kitchen, scouring through a large bag of what appeared to be takeout. Positioned at the table, I watched as he placed several containers in the center. After collecting dinnerware from the cabinets, he relaxed in a seat.
“Do you ever plan on letting me go?” I asked the question wearing on my heart.