Page 44 of Savage Saint

Something happened between church and this morning.

My guess? Kaos did something stupid. Again.

“What did he do?” I ask, my jaw ticking as I walk over and around the bar, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

“He pulled a stitch.”

“How?”

Doc exhales roughly before taking a sip. “Said he got thirsty.”

Again, my jaw ticks while Doc continues to drink his coffee. “What else?”

Because I know there’s more to this than thirst. Trino can be difficult.

The man also looks like he hasn’t gotten much sleep.

“He woke up a little after midnight, decided walking down to the bar was preferable to calling someone, and made it halfway down when his foot slipped. The meds he’s on are strong, and he got dizzy. The only reason he didn’t break his leg is that Roni heard him curse and rushed out. She managed to help him—took the brunt of the railing on her back—and got him back to bed.”

“She okay?”

“Just bruised. She’s sleeping in his room.”

“And the hardheaded motherfucker?”

He snorts. “That’s close to what I called him.”

“Well earned.”

“Kaos popped the stitches on his shoulder. Nothing too bad, but a pain.” Doc rotates his shoulder, grimacing. “It’s been re-cleaned, closed, and I checked the exit wound again. No new bleeding after that.”

“Good. Gonna need you to stay close today.”

“Figured, although he won’t be getting up anytime soon.” At that, I raise a brow. “I knocked him the fuck out.”

“You drugged him?”

“Medically encouraged sleep. There’s a difference.”

“Drugged. Him.”

“I don’t like being argued with when it comes to my patient’s treatment. And in no world would I agree to giving him a little rum after he bled on my newly cleaned floors.”

A low chuckle almost escaped me. Almost.

“He stays in bed.” Not an opinion or option. It’s a directive.

“You planning to tell your VP that?”

“His mother and sister will be here around nine. They’ll tell him for me.” There’s no need for me or anyone to deal with Trino’s stubbornness—our mother will set him straight. He’ll behave.

Doc knocks back what’s left in his cup, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face. The man looks as if I’ve given him a gift. “You’ve made my day, Presidente.”

Standing, he pats me on the shoulder before heading toward his treatment room; he’s whistling a little tune, and I shake my head. Not that I give it any more thought as Rizos and Onyx step into the clubhouse, each dressed for a run with rags in their hands.

Neither says good morning. Instead, they take a seat beside me.

Rizos looks like he slept enough to function, his expression controlled and calm, while Onyx looks like he spent the night deciding exactly how many bones Henry Diaz has left to break.