Page 29 of Savage Saint

A large rug covers most of the wood floor beneath it in the deepest shade of charcoal I’ve ever seen, while the curtains block out most of the natural light.

Apparently, color isn’t allowed in this room.

The only thing breaking the darkness is the warm, recessed lighting around the ceiling and beneath the nightstands, softening what should feel cold into something I’m warming up to.

It’s dangerously inviting.

Because right now, that bed looks like heaven. I could crawl beneath that comforter and sleep for a week.

Instead, my eyes move toward the open bathroom door.

More black; I almost smile.

It’s all stone on the walls and floor, broken up by a long vanity with two square sinks and a mirror spanning the entire wall. More matte black; this time it’s slightly lighter than the rest of the room. My feet carry me inside without my permission; I don’t notice when Maria walks out, but the click of the closing door is loud.

But then it doesn’t matter. Not when my attention settles on the walk-in shower with a rainfall shower head mounted overhead and another along the wall. It’s pristine, not a water spot in sight, and I blink.

These dangerous bikers are cleaner than I am.

For several seconds, I just stand there. My reflection stares back at me from the enormous mirror, and for the first time, I really see myself.

My hair’s a mess.

There are dark circles beneath my eyes.

The dried red stains on my neck and arms—like I ran my soaked fingers across and down my—I’m still wearing the gloves. Never removed them.

My stomach rolls. Dios mio.

“Shower,” I whisper, afraid to upset the peace by being any louder. Carefully, I toe my shoes off mechanically before removing the gloves, placing them inside the shoes so they don’t dirty the floor. Everything else follows in a neat pile; I’ll never touch, much less use, any of these things again.

A sad sigh escapes me, followed by a tiny, ridiculous ache in my chest. I’ll miss this set.

You deserved better.

The thought crosses my mouth before I can stop it. Silly.

But apparently, sleep deprivation has finally pushed me over the edge.

Turning on the shower head, I set it to almost blazing before stepping in beneath the spray. Hot water hits my shoulders, and my eyes close—I almost moan. Every muscle in my body loosens at once, tension draining from my neck down my back as the heat works its way into muscles that have been tight for hours.

For a while, I do nothing. Just stand there with my head down, breathing in and out while pink water circles around my feet. The blood loosens from my skin in thin red trails, disappearing into the drain, and something inside my chest squeezes.

I was kidnapped.

The thought comes quietly, almost detached, and I close my eyes to block out the rivulets.

Saint dragged me out of the hospital.

He handcuffed me.

Threatened me.

I treated his brother after he’d been shot.

And now I’m standing naked in a bathroom somewhere inside the Royal Bastards’ compound like any part of this is normal.

“What the fuck did I get myself into?” The low whisper seems to echo off the stone walls.