The Saint by LP Lovell Release Blitz

We’re celebrating the release of The Saint by LP Lovell! Check out the excerpt and one-click this thrilling contemporary now!

Dark Contemporary

“You’re acting crazy…crazier than normal. Why would you employ Eden?”

“So we can watch her.” There’s no we about it.

He snorts. “Two weeks ago you wanted me to kill her. Now you’re giving her a job. I see the way you look at her.”

Anger starts to bubble like lava, just waiting to spill over and destroy everything in its path. “And how is that?”

“Like she interests you. And nothing interests you aside from money.”

So he sees it. “My interest in her is money because she threatens it. Her brother threatens it.” The lies pour so easily from my lips with enough plausibility to fool my brother — he who knows me so well — the only one who would notice my attentions slipping.

“You aren’t focused.”

“I’m fine!” I instantly regret the slight loss of control, the snap in my voice because it proves an element of truth in his words. Pushing to my feet, I move to the bar and pour a half glass of whiskey before knocking back a full gulp and slamming the glass on the bar. I walk straight past him and yank the door open with a heavy groan of old hinges. I storm from the room, right into Eden. We collide, and she staggers back, dropping the tray of glasses in her hand. The crash can be heard over the music.

She drops to her knees immediately, scrambling to pick up the glass. “I’m sorry,” she says, glancing up at me through long lashes. My cock twitches, my lungs shrink, and my pulse hammers out a staccato rhythm against my eardrums. She’s on her knees before me. Worshipping me, praying at my altar. The thought makes my cock painfully hard, and I can’t…think. A breath hisses through her lips, and she snatches her gaze away, lifting her hand. Blood pours from her finger, cascading down her hand so hypnotically. I drop to a crouch, grabbing her wrist and tugging her closer. The soft jazz music swells around us, and I know there’s a room full of people, but all I see is her…and her blood. So red, so vibrant. Our eyes meet, and I hold my breath, fighting the torrent of images flashing through my mind. Wings. Flames. Blood tears. Blood, blood, blood. Wings of crimson. An angel on her knees, a sacrificial offering. For me. To me. And she looks so good in blood, the crimson against that pristine, pale skin. No!

Shoving to my feet, I stagger away from her. “Clean that up,” I grunt before hurrying away.

She tempts the very darkest parts of me to the surface. Which is precisely why she should be dead, a little voice pops up in my mind. It would be so easy, her existence washed from this planet and thus my mind, as bleach washes germs away. I would feel cleansed. Fixed. Right. But if an angel is the voice of your conscience, encouraging good, then this…craving must surely be the work of the devil. Burning, burning, burning.

She tests me with her simple innocence and naivety, and how truly damned does that make me — that I should crave the destruction of something pure? She plays to my weaknesses, and that troubles me in ways I cannot fathom. This is what He wants, to watch me lose control, to watch me struggle for Him.

I need to get out of this club.

l’ve never run from anyone, but I’m fleeing from the monster she entices from deep inside me. I should never have offered her a job here. I keep walking, moving through the club and straight out of the front door, racing towards the salvation that I sorely need.