Page 28 of Savage Saint

I earned their respect.

“What can I get you to drink, Pocket Doc?”

7

GENESIS

“Ijust want to go home and shower. I’m a mess.” Looking down, I mechanically take in the dried blood staining the front of my scrubs and crusted along my forearms. “That, and an ice-cold Country Club soda sounds lovely. Frambuesa flavor is my favorite.”

“I can give you both.”

For one hopeful second, I perk up. “You’ll take me home?”

“No.” Not an ounce of guilt on his face for shutting me down. Of course not.

My shoulders drop, and a sigh escapes me. “Then you can’t give me both.”

“You can shower here.” His response earns him a deadpan stare, which he returns with indifference. “I have everything you need.”

“Saint, I want to go home.”

“Not yet.” That’s it. No explanation or apology. Normally, that would piss me off; I’d demand to know why—argue my case—but I don’t think he’ll explain. Don’t think he cares that kidnapping is illegal, much less that holding me here is only adding to the list of crimes committed against me.

Instead, I stand there as my legs start to shake. I’m tired.

The adrenaline that kept me moving while Trino needed me is disappearing fast, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy I’m crashing. There’s no other way to explain it. Even my eyes are beginning to hurt, a dull headache that starts above the bridge of my nose and extends around my temples.

Saint watches me for a few seconds before looking across the room. “Maria.”

The older woman who looked at me, arms crossed over her chest, when I first entered the clubhouse looks over from behind the bar. She’s still dressed in jeans and a loose black tank top, her black hair touched by grey at the temples and up in a tight bun.

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she approaches slowly. Her expression isn’t nearly as unfriendly up close. “How can I help you, Presidente?”

“Take our guest upstairs. Top floor. Let her use the private room.”

I don’t miss the quick flash of shock on her face, but she quickly schools her features. Maria’s eyes move between Saint and me, lingering on the mess before her: I’m filthy from head to toe.

She gives me a faint smile. “Come, mija. Let’s get you feeling better.”

Every part of me wants to say no, thank you, but Saint doesn’t give me the chance.

He physically turns me toward the staircase, his thumb stroking down my arm once. Touch almost feather-light. “Go shower. I’ll have your drink ready.”

That kills my denial. There’s nothing else left to say.

So I follow her.

Autopilot. That’s the only word for it.

Maria leads me away from the main room and up the set of stairs toward the top floor, and it’s so quiet up here. I barely pay attention to where we’re going. All I know is the hallway is long, and I’m breathing faster by the time we reach the end, where a set of large double doors are closed.

“Go on.” Maria opens the door and steps aside. Points toward the area where the bathroom is. “Take your time. No rush. I’ll leave a clean set of clothes for you on the bed and lock the door behind me.”

I hear myself say gracias. That’s all I manage as I take in the large bedroom suite I’m standing in. To be honest, I expected something basic. Maybe a dresser and bed, or just a plain, generic bathroom last renovated sometime in the last century.

The room is spotless. Modern. Black on black.

Everything inside is in varying tones of the same color: from matte to glossy and everything in between. In the middle, there’s a comfortable-looking king-size bed with a surprising amount of pillows and a plush comforter. The nightstands on either side are taller than I expect or I’m used to, but not surprising with how tall the men I’ve seen are. There’s a long dresser along the wall, a couple of lamps, their smoked-glass bases disappearing into the dark furniture.