Page 8 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)

Luca

I see her the moment I step through the door.

The bell above me chimes, announcing my entrance, but I barely notice.

My attention is fixed on Lily Moore, tucked away at a corner table with her books spread around her like props in a play we both know she’s performing.

The cashmere sweater she’s wearing clings to her curves in a way that makes my mouth water. Pink. Soft. Like her.

She looks up, those innocent blue eyes widening when they meet mine, the kind of eyes that have never seen a man’s darkest appetites.

A blush blooms across her cheeks like spilled wine on silk—Christ, she’s so fucking young—and I feel my cock twitch behind my zipper.

My fingers itch to grip that delicate jaw, force those virgin lips apart, and claim what no man has tasted before. Something I should control.

But I won’t.

I move through the café with practiced ease, aware of the eyes following me. I’m used to it. The way people stare, the conversations that falter when I enter a room. Power has a presence that can’t be hidden, no matter how casual the clothes or setting.

Her scent hits me as I approach—vanilla and something floral that makes my mouth water, like I could devour her in one bite.

She nervously tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the movement pulling her sweater tight across her breasts.

The pearl earring catches the light—expensive, tasteful, daddy’s perfect little princess who’s never been properly defiled. Yet.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave, though we both know I’m sitting regardless of her answer. I want to see those blue eyes up close when they dilate with fear. Or desire.

“No,” she breathes, shifting her textbooks to make more room. “I mean, it’s yours if you want it.”

I slide into the chair across from her, observing how her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. That spot where I’d like to press my lips, feel her life force jumping beneath my tongue.

“Algebra?” I nod toward her textbook. “I remember those days.”

"Not my favorite,” she admits with a small smile. “But required.”

We fall into a brief silence. For the first time in years, I find myself unsure what to say next. This girl—this teenager—has somehow managed to disarm me with nothing but a pink sweater and wide eyes.

I lean forward slightly, the leather of my chair creaking beneath me, and lower my voice to a rumble that won’t carry beyond our intimate bubble. “Tell me something, Lily. Do you typically flirt with your father’s associates? Batting those innocent eyes while they choke on their drink?”

Her cheeks flame crimson against the cream of her skin, the blush spreading down her slender neck like watercolor on expensive paper.

But her eyes—those vast blue pools—dance with unmistakable mischief beneath long lashes.

A giggle escapes her lips—Christ, a giggle like spun sugar—and she leans in too, mirroring my posture until I can count the light freckles dusting her nose, smell the jasmine in her shampoo.

“No,” she whispers, her breath warm against my jaw, voice honeyed and conspiratorial as if sharing a delicious secret. Her teeth catch her bottom lip for just a moment. “I made an exception for you.”

My cock hardens against my thigh, straining painfully against expensive Italian wool at her unexpected boldness. The sweet-faced college girl in her pink cashmere has fangs, and Christ, I want to feel them sink into my skin.

“Why me?” I ask, voice rougher than intended. “What made me worth the exception?”

She shrugs one delicate shoulder, the movement causing her sweater to slip just slightly, revealing a constellation of freckles across her collarbone that I instantly want to trace with my tongue.

“You didn’t look at me like I was just the Governor’s daughter.

Everyone else treats me like I’m made of glass, or worse, like I’m just an extension of my father.

” Her eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilating.

“You looked at me like you wanted to devour me whole.”

And I do. I want to spread those virgin thighs and feast until she’s sobbing my name, until that pristine image her father has cultivated is shattered beyond repair.

Not the political prop, not daddy’s innocent princess, but a woman writhing beneath me, marked as mine in ways that would destroy us both.

“What about you?” I ask, redirecting the conversation like a shark circling toward fresher prey. “Tell me about Lily Moore when she’s not being the perfect daughter at political functions. What do you do for fun?”

She fidgets with her pen, twirling it between her slender fingers, the silver tip catching the café light with each rotation.

Her teeth graze her bottom lip, leaving it momentarily bloodless before it flushes pink again.

“Study, mostly. Hang out with my roommate.” A pause hangs between us like delicate crystal.

“It sounds boring when I say it out loud.”

"It does,” I agree, my voice a dark rumble, not bothering to soften the truth with the sugar coating other men would offer. Her cornflower blue eyes widen slightly at my bluntness, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains. “I think we need to change that.”

"We?” she echoes, her voice catching on the word like silk snagging on rough hands. A flush creeps up her neck, staining that delicate skin I want to mark with my teeth.

“Unless you’d rather keep living in that bubble of yours.” I lean back, creating space between us. A test. The movement pulls my shirt tight across my chest, and her eyes drop to follow it, lingering where the fabric strains against muscle.

She immediately leans forward, closing the distance again, her breasts pressing against the edge of the table. “No. I want—” She catches herself, lowers her voice to a whisper that feels like a tongue against my ear. “What did you have in mind?”

I smile, slow and deliberate, letting her see the predator beneath the polished exterior. “How about dinner? Tomorrow night. I know a place where no one will recognize the Governor’s daughter.” My eyes drop to her mouth, watching as she unconsciously wets her lips with the pink tip of her tongue.

Her eyes dart across the café, and I follow her gaze to a girl sitting alone at a distant table, pretending not to watch us. The roommate, I assume. Playing bodyguard while Lily plays with fire, unaware of how thoroughly I plan to burn her.

"I’d have to lie about where I’m going,” Lily says, turning back to me, her teeth catching on her plump bottom lip, leaving behind the faintest impression.

“Yes,” I agree, my voice a low, velvet-wrapped blade. “You would.”

The moment stretches between us, electric and dangerous as a live wire in water.

I can see the battle playing out across her expressive face—the Governor’s dutiful daughter warring with the woman aching to taste forbidden fruit.

Her pupils dilate until those cornflower blue eyes are nearly black, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths beneath that pristine cashmere.

“Seven o’clock,” I say, making the decision for her, watching her shoulders relax at having the choice taken away. I pull out my phone, the matte black case a stark contrast against my tanned fingers. “Give me your number.”

She recites it without hesitation, each digit falling from her lips like a promise, and I send her a text so she has mine. Her phone vibrates on the scarred wooden table between us, the screen illuminating with my name.

“I have a meeting,” I say, standing to my full height, towering over her delicate frame. A lie, but I need to leave her wanting more, imagining what comes next. "I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Not at in front if your place—too many eyes. Text me somewhere nearby.”

She nods, looking dazed.

I lean down, my lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear, inhaling the intoxicating scent of jasmine and innocence. “Wear something nice,” I murmur, my voice a dark promise against her flushed skin. “Not pink. Something that shows what you’re hiding under all that cashmere.”

I straighten and walk away without looking back, feeling her hungry gaze burning into me like a brand.

Her roommate is already moving toward her, no doubt ready to warn her about the wolf she’s invited to feast. Too late.

The line I’ve crossed isn’t drawn in sand—it’s carved in stone, permanent as sin.

Governor Moore’s daughter. Nineteen years old. A virgin with kiss-swollen lips and eyes that beg to be corrupted.

Mine for the taking, for the breaking, for the remaking.

This is a complication that could destroy everything I’ve built, a risk that makes my blood sing with danger.

But as I step out into the cool afternoon air, my cock still hard against my thigh, I realize I don’t give a fuck about the consequences.

I want to split her open like ripe fruit and taste what no man has tasted before.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.