Page 87 of Savage Saint

With my face buried in his chest, I breathe him in. Slow breaths. His warm skin against my cheek; moreover, he doesn’t hurry me. This time, both arms wrap around me—Santos De La Cruz just holds me.

No rush. No teasing.

“You’re here, Genesis. I’ll never let you be hurt again.” I swallow hard, embarrassed and confused because I’m emotionally yo-yoing between the two versions of him I’ve met. Brutal and threatening before Trino’s treatment, then getting me my favorite soda and putting me to bed after.

I never truly feared either version of him.

A truth I’m still coming to terms with.

That night, I was shocked, assessing—attracted to him—but, if I’m being honest, never afraid.

“Why am I emotional all of a sudden, Santos? I don’t hate you.”

“Because you need an outlet, Genesis. Everything happened fast, and I don’t think you’ve processed it.”

I nod because it’s not a lie. “Can you teach me? Next time⁠—”

With the tips of two fingers, he lifts my face until our eyes meet. Saint’s face is serious; his expression determined. “I’ll personally kill anyone who touches you, little Pocket Doc. I don’t break my promises.”

“That’s impossible. You won’t always be around, and we’re from different worlds and⁠—”

“Shhh.” The fingers on my chin now cover my lips, cutting me off. “That’s for me to worry about, and I’m going to return that sense of security starting today. You’ll be kicking my ass before we’re through.”

A giggle bursts out of me, sudden and free, catching us both by surprise. “Diosito, I think I’m going insane.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, dropping his hands to my hips. Doesn’t remove them.

“Because I believe you.” And for the first time since I met Santos, he smiles at me. Not a smirk. Not a lip twitch. A full-on, with some teeth-showing, smile. “I’m okay now. Let’s do this.”

I’m coming to realize that Santos is like an emotional flip switch. He can turn and change in the blink of an eye, and what’s standing in front of me now is a stern teacher. It’s like that momentary softness is locked away—not gone, but more like out of the way.

His entire demeanor changes.

Santos steps behind me again, presses a quick kiss to the top of my head, then wraps the same arm around my middle. “Drop your body.”

“What?”

“Drop your body weight. Trust me.” So I do, bending my knees and sinking my weight. “Lower.” My knees bend, sinking my weight a bit more. “Better, but it needs to be fast. Again.”

We reset. This time, when his arm closes around me, I don’t hesitate. The drop is quick, almost slipping me free, but he adjusts and hauls me upright again.

“How was that?” I ask, tugging the legs of my shorts back into place.

“Good. This time, don’t hesitate and turn just enough to create space. You’re looking for room to drive the heel of your palm upward. Nose if you have it. Throat if you don’t. The point is to make the pain sudden and sharp enough that they loosen their grip. The second they do, you run.”

“Again?” I ask, and he nods, retaking his position behind me. This time, when his arm locks into place, I move before the second-guessing has a chance to creep in. Drop. Turn. Create space. My palm comes up fast, but Saint catches my wrist inches from his throat.

“That’s better. Think you can actually land a hit?”

The compliment lands and so does the challenge. One feels good, and the other makes me want to knock him on his ass. Cocky, handsome jerk.

For the next hour we try variations of the same hold; I’m tired and might have a bruise or two, but it feels good. I don’t hesitate; I start looking for ways to land a single punch, but Saint is fast. He dodges and corrects me, makes me laugh a few times, but mostly, I enjoy the feel of him.

Sweaty muscles coiled around me.

His scent deepening with every minute.

The thick, hard shaft pressing against me whenever he yanks me close.