Merciless Saints (St. Monarch's Academy 1)

“Welcome,” Madame Keller says, and it instantly grows quiet in the room. “We have twelve new attendees. It’s the most we’ve ever hosted. There’s only one rule; no killing. You’re allowed to conduct business as always. If a fight breaks out, we will not intervene… unless there’s a death.”

So basically, we can beat each other to a pulp. It’s not a comforting thought.

I feel eyes on me, and then my gaze connects with Vince’s. Lifting his hand to his neck, he drags a finger over the width, indicating he’s planning on killing me.

I’ll have to watch my back. Getting hurt, means I won’t be able to train, and I can’t have that.

I glance over the other attendees. Most aren’t here to learn their trade but to hide behind the secure walls of St. Monarch’s. To them, this place is nothing more than a resort. Others are here to build alliances, and the rest are probably here for the same reason as me – to learn what I can and show I’m a threat.

“The only weapons on the premises are held in the armory. If a weapon is found on you, the penalty will be severe.” Madame Keller’s gaze sweeps over all the tables. “St. Monarch’s Academy is not responsible for what happens outside our gates. We hope you will find your stay with us a pleasant one.”

As soon as Madame Keller takes a seat at the head table upfront, servers flood into the hall.

I look over the instructors. I’m only interested in Miss Dervishi, who’ll be training us in weapons, and Mr. Yeoh, who’s the martial arts Grandmaster. I’ll be spending four hours a day in each class.

Platters of seafood, various meats, and vegetables are placed down in the middle of the table.

A waiter begins to take our drink orders, and when she turns her attention to me, I say, “Cranberry juice. No ice.”

“Vodka,” Damien murmurs. “Stoli.”

It’s only when he orders the Russian drink that I hear his accent slip through, and it makes a tingle spiral down my spine.

Turning my head toward Damien, our eyes connect, and for the longest moment, we just stare at each other.

Attraction skirts around the edges of the fear he instills in me, but nothing in this world will make me act on it. I keep staring at him because one, I won’t back down, and two, I like admiring masterpieces.

DAMIEN

“Wondering if you can take me on?” I ask, keeping my voice low, so the others seated at the table won’t hear.

“No. Just admiring the view,” she throws my words from earlier back at me.

The corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk, and it has her eyes lowering to my lips while interest darkens her eyes.

Lust. It’s the only other emotion that’s as strong as hate.

“Enemies can admire each other,” she whispers.

“True,” I agree. Tilting my head, I ask, “What have I done to become your enemy?”

She lets out a burst of silent laughter, and it makes her cleavage swell for a tantalizing moment. “It’s simple. If you’re not for my family, you’re against us.”

“No neutral ground?”

“Never.” With the word drifting over her lips, she turns her attention to the table where the families who deal in arms are seated.

Winter is preparing for war, and I wonder how her father and brother fit into everything. Why did they task her with the defense of the family?

Winter was right when she told Carson she’s no ordinary princess. She’s the furthest thing from one. A warrior.

To get the dinner over with, I plate a couple of slices of beef and some vegetables for myself. Only then do the rest of the table begin to help themselves to food, and it makes my eyes narrow as I glance at each of my companions.

It used to be just Hugo, Paulie, and myself.

My gaze settles on Megan-Joe Fang, also known as MJ. Her father is a retired custodian, so she might be a match for Hugo and Paulie.

As I take the last bite of my meal, I turn my eyes back to Winter. She’s shown me she can fight Paulie, but I’m not so sure whether she’ll be able to stand her ground against Hugo.

Winter should be sitting with the Smugglers. She’s too tiny, too fragile-looking to train with us.

Feeling rattled by the worry slithering through my veins, I down my drink and get up from the chair. Walking away from the table, I feel eyes burning on my back. Those of my enemies, my competition, and then the sensation changes as Winter’s eyes settle on me.

Right now, there might be a physical attraction between us, but I’m sure it will die a sudden death when we’re forced to fight tomorrow.

Even though training only starts at eight, I’m in the studio to warm up by six every day.

Wearing my usual rashguard shirt and MMA shorts, I strap on the shin guards, hand wrap, and gloves. When I’m ready, I head over to the reflex bag and begin with slow punches, increasing my pace every couple of minutes.