Your Saint Is In Another Country Chapter 1 Novels & Stories

I'm not aware of my surroundings, but I'm aware of the hot man holding me as he wraps his arms around my waist. “I know.” Cocky jerk. “It's so sad that I can't have you.” I sigh. If I could, I would have definitely chased him. But it will be a shame if they find out that I'm gay. “Who says you can't?” He chuckles. “Do you know who I am? I'm Vaughn Saint-McCarthy. The only son of Reynolds. His golden boy. People will Judge me once they find out that I'm–” I blurp, and I feel something rush up my throat. I'm going to vomit. Fuck. Coming here was a bad idea.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t close the door.” “You shouldn’t have stuck your hand like a psychopath. You’re very different from who I used to know.” “Guess whose fault that is?” He looked like he could strangle me. “Come inside.” He said begrudgingly. Just as I took a step inside the house, Saint appeared, dressed in a black shirt and grey sweatpants as though he intended to seduce me. “Why is it taking you so long to come upstairs?” He asked me, ignoring the presence of his nephew.

CHAPTER 98 — THE SACRIFICE GAME The storm raged above the city, turning the night into a chaotic symphony of thunder, wind, and lightning. The docks were a shattered mess, still echoing with the aftermath of the shadow creature’s destruction. Water swirled around broken beams and shattered metal, and smoke mingled with the mist in a haze that made the air thick and electric. Riven stood at the edge of the pier, chest heaving, eyes locked on the crimson glow where the chains suspended the figure. His heart screamed with recognition: Saint. Alive—but in unimaginable pain.

Samson, Age 52, Blood Pressure That must mean the man sitting next to the woman who called herself my mother was Mr. Samson. So they really were humans. I didn't care much for the woman who looked like Oma. All I wanted was to leave immediately and figure out what realm I'd landed in and what had happened to the strange boy I came here with. Was he a traveler too? Any clue, any sign… On my way out, the woman called after me. "Fionaaaa! Hold on!"

He drank a glass of water and bit his lips before he continued. "Third, enjoy the moment, Saint. I need you to just bury and immerse yourself in me while I do the same. We face too many problems out there and here is the only space we can see true comfort — from each other. Fourth, as for our status, I will leave that for you to decide." Saint stared at him, his heart beating faster at the thought of embarking on this 'forbidden' journey.

Serafina’s Pov ⁠♡ The barn was supposed to be empty. Old, forgotten, behind the church grounds—used for storing hay and broken pews. No one came here. I never did too. Until today. The day I would finally give all of me to the naughty priest. Father Matteo. He grabbed my waist, lifted me like I weighed nothing, and slammed my back against the rough wooden wall. I screeched in excitement, my stomach bubbled and curled into that familiar thread of warmth.

The Southlands priest once prophesied that the Duke of Winslet's house would produce a Saintess who could command every beast alive. I'd hidden the golden serpent mark on my wrist since childhood, but my cousin, Rose Winslet, flaunted a poisonous snake coiled around hers every day. When the marriage decree came, she got exactly what she wanted: the Crown Prince. I was given to the Seventh Prince instead, a man with two ruined legs whom the entire court despised. For six years after that, I trained hawks to carry messages and drove wolves through enemy lines, and it was my hands that put him on the throne. The day he was crowned, I told him, overjoyed, that I was the true beast-commandin

He stayed in the background for the most part, but Katya had him take point today, opting to sit in the same amethyst-colored chair she did every time she’d visited me here. I’d attempted pumping her for information ever since that first day when I’d fainted from the overwhelming emotions flowing through me, but her lips were sealed as tightly as a submerged submarine. Even so, I knew I was going to try my damnedest to get Saint to talk, and I decided to open with an inquiry that kept popping up in my brain, asking, “Where are the other humans?” Saint’s normally steady hand faltered, the glass teacup slipping from his fingers in the split second when his shock won out. It hit the ground with

“You think they’ll be sporty?” “I think they’ll be scared,” I whisper. His hand tenses. I’ve shattered the fiction of this day. “No,” he says roughly. I look up at him, the hard planes of his face, the slash of his mouth. “Can we really leave?” I ask before I can stop myself. He sighs. “I—” “I was looking at the documents.” I run my fingers over the tiny sneakers. “Just trying to get a sense of the business. There’s a Saints outpost in Brindisi, on the east coast of Italy, isn’t there?”

"Wait... Callan, what do you mean by that? Have you two met before today? Sophia, did you come to this clinic earlier without telling me?" "No! No, Mom!" I babbled out quickly, my hands trembling as I clutched my bag strap for dear life. "I... I don't know him! I've never seen this man in my life!" Callan let out a low, dark chuckle, taking a slow step closer to where I was standing by the door. The heat coming off his tall, massive body made my skin prickle with goosebumps. "Is that so, Sophia?" Callan murmured, his dark eyes flashing with pure evil amusement.