BAD
SAINT
Volume
One
Monica James
I was
kidnapped on my honeymoon by three masked men.
Blindfolded.
Bound.
Destination
unknown.
I was told
to stay silent and abide by their rules. But they didn’t realize I wasn’t a
victim…not anymore.
The open
sea was my backdrop for nine torturous days. During that time, glimmers of my
fate were revealed by a man with the mysterious chartreuse-colored eyes. He
should have scared me, but he didn’t.
He
intrigued me. And I intrigued him.
He punished
me when I didn’t listen, which was every single day. But beneath his cruelty, I
sensed he was guarding a grave secret.
I was sold.
And in a game of poker, no less.
My buyer? A Russian mobster who
likes to collect pretty things. Now that I know the truth, I only have one choice.
Sink or swim.
And when one fateful night presents
me the opportunity, I take it. I just never anticipated my actions would leave
me shipwrecked with my kidnapper.
He needs me alive. I want him dead.
But as days turn into weeks, one
thing becomes clear—I should hate him…but I don’t.
My name is Willow.
His name is Saint.
Ironic, isn’t it? He bears a name that denotes nothing
but holiness yet delivers nothing but hell. However, if this is hell on
earth…God, save my soul.
Release
date: May 6th 2019
Series: All The
Pretty Things Trilogy, Volume One
Genre: Dark
Romance
Cover
Designer: Sommer Stein—
Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Pre-Order
Links
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UK
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Australia
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Canada
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Bio
Monica
James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare,
and Emily Dickinson.
When she
is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a
balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent
stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration
from life.
She is a bestselling
author in the U.S.A., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and the U.K.
Monica
James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie
of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and
secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
Stalk
Me!
Website: http://monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com.au
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2EWZSyS
Excerpt:
The
pillowcase and gag are certain to kill me soon, and if not, my racing heart
will give out in next to no time. Arms link through mine from behind and help
me stand. I know it’s the American. His
fragrance gives him away. I stand wearily, but I will stagger to my death
before anyone carries me.
“Ten steps,”
the American whispers from behind me. I flinch at his muffled voice through the
pillowcase. He stands at my back, ensuring I don’t fall. I could mistake his
actions for him giving half a shit, but it’s clear that wherever I’m going,
they need me alive. If not, they would have killed me already.
This isn’t a
robbery. It’s a kidnapping.
Once I
shakily descend the ten steps, my feet hit the sand, and in any other
circumstance, I could appreciate the softness between my toes. But when I’m
pushed and shoved as the American no longer seems to be near, all I can
appreciate is that I’m not dead—well, not yet anyway.
Through the
pillowcase, I can hear the gentle lapping of the ocean against the shore, but
it’s none the wiser that three criminals are about to use it to aid in changing
my world forever. When my feet tread water, I jolt with the sudden fear that
they’re going to drown me. But that doesn’t make any sense.
If I’m going
to survive this, I have to keep my head clear.
“Boat. In,”
says someone, maybe Russian two or one. They all sound the same.
I’m yanked
up—someone pulling on my floppy arms while the other lifts my legs—and I feel
like a chew toy being ripped into two. Once I’m dragged onto the boat, I’m
directed on where to go as someone shoves me in the back, screaming at me in a
language I don’t understand.
I’m then
forced down some stairs where I lose my footing and fall flat onto my stomach.
Grunting on impact, I instantly search around, hoping to distinguish where I
am—I’m in the bottom of the boat. The galley.
“Stay,”
someone commands, ensuring I be the good
dog they clearly see me as being.
Fuck them.
I rise
slowly, using my hands as eyes as I feel my way around blindly. I need to find
a weapon. One small enough to hide. Blood is seeping into my eyes from the
wound on my temple, so I close them because I can’t see through this thick
pillowcase anyway.
My fingers
come into contact with what feels like a small torch. Not the weapon I had in
mind, but it’ll have to do.
I’m
interrupted when I hear someone tsk me
before I’m being dragged by my long hair and hurled against what feels like a
cushioned bench seat. The pain in my head just amplifies. “Arms behind. Hands
together.”
I shakily
comply, sobbing around the gag.
He reaches
around me, and when the unmistakable feel of metal snaps around my wrists, I
know my freedom is dwindling by the second. He yanks at the handcuffs to ensure
they are tight. They are.
My
breathless panting reveals my fear, but when I feel the predatory touch at the
back of my calves, I freeze. Two hands glide up and down my flesh, humming in
satisfaction. He’s on his knees before me.
Oh, god.
“You
pretty.” His English is broken, but I’m not lost in translation. I know what he
wants.
“We going to have fun, and it’ll be our
secret.” Next, I feel a wet tongue lap its
way up the side of my calf. The smell of cigarettes and sweat has my stomach
roiling.
Adrenaline
takes over, and I attempt to kick him, but he’s too fast, chuckling as he
pushes down on my ankles. He then begins to bound them with coarse rope.
Once he tugs
at my restraints, it sounds like he stands. I try to kick my feet out, but
they’re tied to something hard beneath me. I’m bound. Hands and feet. And
gagged. I’m not going anywhere.
“She tied
up?” I almost sigh in relief when I hear the American. He was the only one who
showed me an iota of mercy. The other two scare me. The American doesn’t.
“Yes, like a
present. You want to unwrap her?”
I suddenly
feel so objectified and dirty and attempt to recoil, but I can’t move. My heart
is racing, and my breathing is uneven. The tears have long dried as I’m
awaiting their next move.
“Shut the fuck
up and let’s go.”
That was not
the response I was expecting. The Russian laughs.
“Calm down, ะฝะตัะดะฐัะฝะธะบ.”
“Fuck you.
Up on deck now.” The American talks big and seems to be calling the shots. I
wonder who he is?
My only clue
to what’s going on is what I hear, and before the hatch closes, I’m presented
with clue number one. “Be in Turkey soon. I hope you don’t get seasick, Saint.”
Then the hatch closes, leaving me with the sound of the muted voices above me.
Turkey? Why
are we going there? But more importantly, I just uncovered the name of my
American captor…Saint.
Ironic,
isn’t it, that someone who bears a name denoting nothing but holiness can
deliver nothing but hell.
Bon voyage.
