Her Saint: A Masked Stalker Romance, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Harmony West
Cover Design © 2024 by Beholden Book Covers
Published by Westword Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9881181-4-5
For every sinner searching for her saint
“My babe would never fret none about what my hands and my body done.”
— HOZIER
CONTENTS
Note From S.T. Nicholson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Continue the Story
Also by Harmony West
Acknowledgments
About the Author
NOTE FROM S.T. NICHOLSON
Dear Reader,
The book you are about to read contains graphic content. This story was written for those who prefer their romance dark and twisted. My muse is my obsession and I will not apologize for the lengths I’ll go to make her mine.
Proceed with caution. For more detailed warnings, visit www.harmonywestbooks.com.
Whether you’d like to skip over or skip to the sensual chapters in this book, you can find these scenes in Chapters 16, 21, 23, 24, 29, and 32.
Please note this book ends on a cliffhanger. The story continues in the sequel, His Sinner.
Enjoy.
- S.T. Nicholson
CHAPTER ONE
BRIAR
My student is stalking me.
I knew I should’ve gone into book publishing. But no, I had to fall for this beautiful, brick campus and college life. For the promise of what an education and an MFA from somewhere like the Auburn Institute of Fine Arts in the heart of Maine could offer its students.
Now, a student with a hard-on is trailing me like a puppy.
For a stalker, he’s impossible to miss. While the other students slumped into class in sweats and hoodies, he strode in donning a crisp button-up and slacks, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his glorious forearms prominently on display. His classmates are all burnt-out twenty-somethings with Starbucks addictions, but he’s clearly older. At least early thirties.
He spent the entire class glowering at his laptop screen, his dark, thick brows furrowed and pouty lips pursed. During the two-hour lecture in which Dr. Barrett droned on about how much our students will be expected to read and write for this course, my gaze was continually drawn back to his dark eyes and chiseled jawline, mesmerized. I thought the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen had barely even registered my existence at the front of the room, diligently and uncomfortably standing at Dr. Barrett’s side.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I stand my ground before I cross into the parking lot, shielding my eyes against the sun’s rays that somehow do little to warm the brisk September air. If he thinks he’s dragging me into his kidnapper van, he picked the wrong woman.
“Are you following me?” I speak loud enough that anyone passing by will hear. We’re on a university campus, for god’s sake. Does he really think no one’s going to witness him stalking me?
As he approaches, a lopsided smirk crawls across his lips. I mentally kick myself for not remembering his name. How the hell will Mack solve my murder if I can’t even text her the name of my kidnapper?
“I am following you,” he concedes. His low, rumbling baritone dances down my spine. My god, I’m getting turned on by a man’s voice. By the voice of a man who literally just admitted he’s stalking me. I seriously need to get laid. And run in the other direction. “But I’m only trying to be a gentleman.”
He holds out a thick tome with a black, minimalist cover and a distressed bookmark shoved inside. My copy of This Book Will Haunt You by my favorite author, S.T. Nicholson. If my house was on fire, I would save my cat and then I would save this book.
I snatch it from his hands, face warming. I can’t believe I didn’t notice my bag was about five pounds lighter. If I had gotten home and realized my copy was missing, I literally would have cried. A first edition of S.T. Nicholson’s bestselling book, before he blew up and hit the New York Times Bestseller list. My reminder that I’ve been his biggest fan from the beginning.
I'm an idiot for actually believing my student would have any interest in following me around campus. Too many true crime documentaries for my caffeine-addled brain. Even if he wasn’t my student, what interest would a man like him have in me? I’m no slouch, but I’m woman enough to admit that a man like him would only settle for the Megan Foxes of the world. I can pull them when I want to, but my dry-shampoo hair and bare face are hardly a step up from my students’ pajamas and unbrushed hair.
A relieved breath escapes my chest as I squeeze the book close. “Oh my god, thank you!”
His lips spread into a genuine smile this time, flashing a glimpse of perfect, dazzling white teeth. But it’s his eyes that make my heart stutter—the coal-black irises glinting with renewed interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone display that much enthusiasm for a book.”
“This is my favorite book. By my favorite author.” I stuff it back into my bag before I lose it again.
He tilts his head in a way that makes me want to shove him and flee before I fall madly in love with him. If I was capable of that. “And what is it about this author that you like so much?”
I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me about my favorite books. Maybe Trevor. He actually had the audacity to ask to borrow my copy of This Book Will Haunt You after he saw me lugging it around campus. I told him he could buy it online or borrow it from the library like the rest of us. He hasn’t said a word to me about the book since, so I doubt he ever read it.
“So many things,” I admit, the words already bubbling up and eager to escape. “I’m on the edge of my seat from page one. He’s the master of writing a creepy Gothic setting, and all of his books are deliciously dark. He writes murder so vividly, I swear to god if I found out he was an actual murderer, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
My student quirks a dark brow and lets out a surprised laugh. A sound that brings a lump to my throat. “Wow. That’s quite the praise.”
“Oh, I’m nowhere near done.” I’m on a roll now. Once someone gets me talking about S.T. Nicholson, it’s impossible to get me to stop. “He writes in a way that makes me feel . . . understood. Like in a way no one else in the world ever has. Not even my mom or my best friend, and they basically know everything about me. I know it sounds crazy, and it’s probably just me projecting on a parasocial relationship, but S.T. Nicholson feels like a kindred spirit. Like if we met, we would just . . . get each other.”
Even though I’m babbling now, my student’s smile hasn’t faltered. I’m amazed his eyes aren’t darting around, seeking an excuse to get the hell away from me. In fact, he’s somehow totally enraptured by my fangirling over an author he’s never heard of.
“He wears a mask to all his book signings too. He’s so committed to his anonymity that he never takes it off because he wants readers to judge his books solely based on his words. And he writes the best smut I’ve ever read from a male author.”
Another stunned laugh. “A glowing recommendation if I’ve ever heard one.”
He doesn’t even talk like an MFA student. Where the hell did this guy come from? Possesses model good looks, rescues lost books, and actually listens to a woman when she’s speaking. Too bad I’m his professor—assistant professor—or I’d invite him back to my place for a wild, passionate one-night stand right now.
“Sorry, what was your name again?” I ask.
“Saint de Haas.” That smirk tells me he’s anything but a saint. He steps closer with the confidence of a man who always gets exactly what he wants. “Maybe you could tell me more about this author and his books over coffee sometime.”
Shit. He can’t be asking me out. I can’t say no to a face that’s practically begging me to sit on it.
I take a step back, forcing myself away from the radiating warmth and allure of this stalker-turned-altruist. “Actually, as your professor, we should keep our interactions limited to the classroom.”
Even if he wasn’t my student, I wouldn’t agree to a date. I have no interest in men beyond sex, so there’s no point in getting to know each other. I swore off relationships a long time ago, and even a man this gorgeous and
“I hardly think your job will be at risk over an innocent coffee and a public conversation.” Oh great. A man who doesn’t like to take no for an answer. He steps toward me again, a devilish smirk twisting his lips that weaves my stomach into a knot. “Unless you’re concerned about what you may want to do together in public.”
I choke on my own saliva for a second before squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. “No concerns at all. I just hate coffee.” That is, I hate the absolute chokehold it has on me. I can’t make it out the door without downing two cups of the nectar of the gods. “Any conversations you’d like to have with me can happen in the classroom.”
Saint nods, taking the rejection shockingly well for a man who’s likely never been rejected in his life. A man probably born into wealth, handed everything he’s ever wanted as the singular male heir to some old-money fortune. A man with the kind of leisurely life that allows him to drop tens of thousands of dollars on one of the most expensive MFA programs in the country and still not pay attention in class. A man I have exactly nothing in common with other than a concern for books left behind by their forgetful owners.
“Very well. See you in class then, Briar.”
My spine stiffens. “It’s Miss Shea—I mean, Dr. Shea.” Even with a PhD I’ve worked nine years for under my belt, the title still doesn’t feel right.
He flashes that frustratingly beautiful smile. “Dr. Shea,” he corrects, dipping his head like someone pulled him straight out of a freaking Regency novel.
When he turns and heads in the opposite direction, I beeline for my car, certain I’m crimson at the sultry way Dr. Shea left his mouth.
That gorgeous, perfect, erotic mouth.
I freeze with my key fob out and swing my gaze back over my shoulder. But he’s disappeared into the crowd of students and faculty ambling across campus.
I never told him my first name.
CHAPTER TWO
SAINT
Some writers ask Google how to kill their characters. I, however, possess hands-on experience.
Too bad my research is doing me little good now.
No matter how long I stare at this wretched screen, no matter how many walks I take or books I read, desperate for inspiration, the words never come. The word processor before me remains blank.
The professor running this godforsaken fiction writing class is entirely full of shit. Every bit of “wisdom” he spouts is pulled straight from his ass. Not a single mention of prose or character arcs or story structure in his five-page syllabus. Worse, all twelve of us in this room know he’s going to brush off the entire instruction of this course onto his assistant professor.
Briar Shea wants to fuck me. Why else would she be showing off her amazing tits in that low-cut top and wearing that suck-you-off red lipstick? Her long, mahogany hair falls down to her waist in loose spirals, big blue eyes framed with thick lashes, top cinched in at the waist, barely meeting her dark slacks and riding up to show off a sliver of her soft belly. I want to nip my way across, chin scraping the waistband of her slacks as my lips brush her soft skin from one hip bone to the other.
Before I swiped her favorite book from her bag and gallantly returned it, she came to class in shredded jeans and a frumpy top that didn’t do her an ounce of justice.
No, my biggest fan has a body that deserves to be immortalized in fiction.
She’s not wearing that outfit to entice the professor, that's for damn sure. She grimaces every time she catches his gaze lingering on her. Every time he makes some flimsy excuse to touch her.
Each brush of his skin against hers makes me want to pluck his eyes from his head before I set him on fire.
No. I can’t afford to get embroiled in her life. I’m here to write a book. This renowned MFA program is my last attempt at getting another manuscript in my agent’s waiting hands.
Admittedly, Briar is the reason I chose the Auburn Institute. Her five-star reviews dominate the retailer pages for every one of my books, all of them claiming the title of S.T. Nicholson’s biggest fan.
I tracked her reviews to a social media profile, where she’d been leaving flirtatious comments on my assistant-run account along with half of my audience. My readers are primarily women with a passion for books and masked men, and Briar is no exception.
From there, it was almost horrifyingly easy to discover where she lives and works. How convenient—my biggest fan a newly minted assistant professor at a prestigious creative writing MFA program, exactly the sort of program I hope will give me the inspiration I need to write more words.
Listening to her evangelize about my work nearly had me collapsing to my knees before her. Hers were the first positive words to break through the cacophony of negativity consuming my brain since I read the notorious review five months ago.
My fingers move on autopilot across my keyboard, pulling up the review I’ve bookmarked for convenient self-immolation.
A scathing one-star assessment in which the reviewer laments his inability to assign zero stars to my book.
This is my friend’s favorite book so I decided to give it a try. This is the worst drivel I’ve ever read in my life.
I’ve memorized the first two lines of the three-thousand-word review that I can only imagine took this reader an entire week to write. I’m no stranger to negative reviews or criticism—I welcome critique that can make my next books shine.
But it’s this reader’s presumptions of my character that have kept me awake at night. Propagating that I’m some sort of serial killer with a proclivity for somnophilia and necrophilia simply because those are the predilections of the protagonists I write. That I must have a criminal past to hide because I wear a mask to divorce my private identity from my public persona. His criticism not only attacks my character but completely annihilates the decade of work I’ve poured into my bibliography.
In this reader’s unique, ineloquent way, they’ve branded me a hack. A scourge on literature. Claiming that my Gothic horror novels are too full of violence, romance, and sex for the motifs, themes, or prose to bear any merit. That my contributions to literature ought to be shit upon before flushed down a toilet and set ablaze.
A review has never bothered me before. I’m confident in my work, satisfied with the novels I publish. I have fans across the world who buy every book I write and send letters professing their love for my books, and on occasion, me. Readers who pushed my fourth novel—published by the only small press that expressed a modicum of interest in it—onto the New York Times Bestseller list. Then my three previous titles followed.
Yet this review from an anonymous stranger on the internet has rendered me useless. Not a flicker of inspiration has struck since the night I poured a little too much gin and settled in with the review on my screen and a thumping heart in my chest. Not a word has been typed or scrawled. Not a single character has spoken in my ear nor one scene flashed in my mind.
Writer’s block at its worst. A block that no amount of refilling the creative well can overcome.
I’m a writer without words. A pen without ink.
That’s why I’m here. On a desperate, expensive quest for inspiration. For my lost muse.
After class, I’ll question Briar again. Discover exactly what she loves about my work so I can utilize that in my next manuscript.
“Complete the reading before class. See you next week,” Professor Molester calls before he plants a hand on the small of Briar’s back.
She steps out of his grasp, but she doesn’t fly off the handle like I’d expect from a five-foot woman who snapped at me for following her across campus.
Before I can intervene and whisk her away from Professor Molester for a conversation about her favorite author, my phone vibrates. Derrik’s name flashes across my screen.
By the time I tuck my laptop back in my bag and answer the call, my biggest fan is gone.
“Talk to me.” Derrik’s brusque New Jersey accent barks in my ear.
I head for the door, holding it open for a mousy classmate who flashes me a grateful smile. Out in the hallway, I scan the stream of students leaving their classes and workshops, Briar nowhere in sight. “You called me,” I remind him.
