Check out this gorgeous cover for The Saint by LP Lovell! Add it to your TBR today!
*Please note: This is not a romance. The Saint is a dark suspense.*
My life was simple; God, business and myself, in that order.
Then I met an angel, and everything changed.
Only an angel can save the damned.
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I’m having a hard time deciding how I feel about The Saint. It was an intense and bizarre story. For the most part, I was completely intrigued with every turn of events, but I felt unsettled, unsatisfied with the ending and that left me frustrated. Honestly, if the current blurb had been the one I had read when I decided to read The Saint, I might have passed this one over.
The Saint is billed as a suspense, but I didn’t feel like it really lived up to that genre. I never had the feeling that something ominous was looming on the horizon. Never had any desire to try to figure out who was behind anything, because we knew who was behind everything, almost as soon as it happened. The Saint felt like the first three-quarters of a dark romance, with none of the payoff of a satisfying conclusion. To me, it felt like the book started as a romance, then the author wasn’t sure how to redeem the anti-hero, so she cut the ending short, called it a suspense novel, then hoped her loyal readers would take it at face value. The Saint could have been a phenomenal story had Ms. Lovell clung to Saint’s ominous persona and fleshed out the relationship with him and Eden, all while he was keeping his secrets. It would have kept with the tenor of the story and given the reader some sense of closure regarding the story.
“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
I’m a priest, a messenger of God, a good man. At least that’s what I would have them all believe.
She’s a lost lamb, cast adrift from her flock and seeking shelter from the wolves snapping at her heels. She’s looking for salvation, protection, forgiveness for her sins. I’m not the man to give it to her. But for the first time in my life, I want to be.
Little does she know…
For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.
Lauren Lovell is an indie author from England. She suffers from a total lack of brain to mouth filter and is the friend you have to explain before you introduce her to anyone, and apologize for afterwards.
She’s a self-confessed shameless pervert, who may be suffering from slight peen envy.