Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

I smiled smugly. That was the power of such an elite.

She must not get what she wanted.

I kicked off my chair and made my way to where Saint stood. In the corner of the same room I’d visited her in many times before. The simple light swinging backward and forward over the table. Back. Forth. I reached toward Saint and touched her cheek. So soft.

She whacked my hand away from her, and I laughed, throwing my head back. At once I slammed her against the wall with both hands on either side of her head. She cowered, and I knew I’d got to her.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered hoarsely into her ear. Though my face might look like Brantley’s, my voice never had. She would never notice it, though. That was the best part. I ran the tip of my finger down the dip of her shirt, between her breasts. “Am I not dark enough for you?”

She shoved me in my chest to run away, but I grabbed her around the throat and knocked her against the wall again. No one would know I was roughing up the toy. She fought against me, her fingernails sinking into my arms.

“Let me go!” she screamed, and my eyes fired to life.

“Haven’t you heard? I don’t like being told no. Not even from you.”

I shoved my hand beneath the front of her pants and she started to whimper. “Stop.” My thumb grazed her gently. “I said stop.”

I didn’t. I slid one finger between her folds and groaned when she clenched around me. “Stunning. You’re perfect. No wonder he’s obsessed with you. The boy has taste. Thank fucking God.”

I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t see her hands fly up to my face, her thumbs sinking into my eye sockets before I could get her off.

“I said fucking stop!” She squeezed, and pain erupted from behind my lids. I released her, howling in pain.

Shit.

Saint

I crawl up my bed, swiping the tears from my eyes hastily. Wincing, I look down at my thumbs. I pause. Fresh blood seeped into the edges of my nails. Flying off the bed, I rush into the bathroom and begin scrubbing my fingers.

“You awake, chica!” Ophelia storms into my room and I quickly splash water over my face to hide the tears. I’m patting my cheeks dry when she stops outside the bathroom door, cocking her head. Her hair is piled on the top of her head in a messy bun, her face free of makeup—not that she needs it to begin with. She sags against the door. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not!” I lie, walking past her.

“Mmmhmmm. You can’t lie to a witch, especially your sister witch.”

I drop down onto my bed and she makes her way to a duffel bag that she brought in with her. “I know I said alcohol isn’t good for the state of mind you’re in right now, but I’ve changed my mind. I will not have you feeling this way the night you see him again for the first time.” She lifts a bottle of champagne to her face. “Cristal?” She flashes the gold bottle up and I smile at her.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ophelia.”

She pulls out two flutes from her bag of tricks, and then another but places it on the office desk. She begins pouring. “Oh please. You, my little Saint, are stronger than anyone I know.” She walks over and I take my glass from her. Instantly, I feel my chest loosen, the vision I just had fading. “I’m serious. If you need to talk about anything, you can trust me.” She sips on her champagne, and I watch her carefully. Ophelia has the most unique green eyes I have ever seen, which only contrasts her dark mocha skin tone. So beautiful. God, but she’s seriously beautiful. That kind of beauty only comes around every so often. She’s the kind that everyone would stop and stare at.

“I’ve been having these visions.” Before I can think about what I’m saying, it’s out.

She turns to face me, her fluffy brows curving into her straight nose. “What kind of visions?”

I shake my head, swiping the champagne residue off my lips. “They’re intense. They’re—almost real. There’s a man.”

She rolls her beautiful eyes. “There always fucking is.”

I would laugh if I wasn’t still partially shaken from the last one. “He comes as Brantley…”

She pauses, then turns and grips me around my chin. “And it can’t be him? Like no way can it be Brantley?” Her eyes are wide, frantic.

I shake my head. “No. I know Brantley, and I don’t just mean his shell. I know his soul, the same way a dog knows its owner.”

She releases my chin. “That means someone is playing tricks with your mind. Do you know how to kick them out? Has Veronica taught you that yet?”