Page 31 of Savage Saint

“The soda Saint promised me.” Knowing something cold and sweet is waiting for me gives me enough motivation to cross the room and pull the door open without thinking. I have two goals in mind, but both disappear the moment my eyes meet a pair of hazel ones.

Saint is standing against the wall. Focused on me.

A startled breath catches in my throat as a shiver crests over me, tightening my nipples beneath the cotton shirt. I watch as his jaw ticks and his thick brow lifts, right before his gaze drops.

Diosito, help me.

8

SAINT

Kaos is going to be fine. ~Doc

The text came in seconds ago, and I read it twice while three small dots indicate he’s still typing. Then my phone pings again, two different conversations, and I let the other sit. This is more important.

As the little nurse said, it went through the flesh, with no bone involvement on the imaging. Graze is ugly, but superficial. Genesis did a great job; we owe her. I’m stitching him up now, and Rizos will get him upstairs after. He’ll be knocked out for the next few hours, at the very least. ~Doc

My thumb hovers over the screen as the relief settles. It doesn’t come dramatically; there are no deep exhales or prayer—nothing anyone would see if they were standing in front of me.

Instead, it’s the ease of the tightness in my shoulders, and for the first time since Trino was shot, I can think past the possibility of burying my brother.

Because that’s the life we chose. Trino’s my hermano before he’s my vice president, and there are very few things in this life more important to me than blood. We know the risks and vowed our loyalty to protect and serve our colors—to keep everyone we care about safe.

And if Kaos had the energy to irritate the little Pocket Doc and argue about cookies, the bastard isn’t dying.

Pocketing my phone, I ignore the second text for now and call over to the prospect picking up empty beer bottles. He’s the youngest, at nineteen, yet more mature than his uncle, a patched member.

“Yes, Saint?”

“Rio, do we have any cold Country Club in the fridge?”

His brows furrow, but he nods. “We have cola champagne, merengue, and grape flavor. Think that’s it.”

“We need to have Frambuesa at all times. She likes the raspberry one.” He’s smart enough not to ask who I’m talking about, but he pulls out his phone and adds a note with the information. “Go pick up a case.”

“Be back in ten, Presidente. I’ll also have the shop sell me a few already cold.”

“Go.” Low murmurs reach me as Rio walks out of the clubhouse, our club family waiting on news of their VP, and I hold a hand up, signaling the room to silence. They do; every patched member, old lady, and club’s cuero is looking at me with concern.

Especially Roni. Her red eyes give away how much she cares, even if she’s kept him at arm’s length.

“Kaos is good.” The shift in the room is immediate as shoulders drop, and a few heads bow in a low prayer. Near the bar, someone utters a low gracias a Dios, while another lets out a whistle. “He’ll be down for a few hours while Doc finishes with him. Rizos will get him upstairs after, and Roni?”

“Yes, Saint. How can I help?” He owes me for this.

“You’ll be with him for the next twenty-four hours. He’s not to do anything but rest.”

“Of course. Do I have permission to enter his room and get the bed ready for him?”

“Yes.” She rushes away, subtly wiping at the corner of her eye, while conversations pick up again, even if still quieter than these walls are used to. The Mamajuana comes out with chasers of Presidente beer. A chair scrapes across the floor, and someone turns the music up just enough to fill the silence left behind by the last hour.

The clubhouse breathes again, and so do I. Not that I show it.

My eyes move toward the hallways leading to Doc’s treatment room, but I don’t follow. There’s no reason to, a thought that should have me reading the second text waiting on my phone instead of moving toward the stairs.

Genesis Romero. Pocket Doc.

The little nurse who didn’t fall apart. Most people would have.