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"What the fuck?" The man yells. I turn to look behind me, as a man I recognize from yesterday pulls back his hand, turning it into a fist. I stumble backwards with tears streaming down my face.
There's a sickening cracking sound and I cover my mouth, my eyes wide.
The three men who were just trying to get me in their car are attacked on all sides by a gathering of men.
I count six of them, before the one I recognize tugs me to him, his face set in hard lines.
"We’re not trying to hurt you," he says but I can't stop the tears from flowing. "We’re Mr. Amaro's men and we need to get you to safety, now."
"Wh–where?" I choke out, seeing Mr. Amaro's men stomp on my attackers who are all crouched and trying to evade blows.
"Mr. Amaro's home," he says before tugging me away from the scene.
I'm in their car when I suddenly remember something.
My flowers!
Fuck.
* * *
By the time the car pulls into a gated compound, my body is still shaking. I don't think I've ever experienced something this scary. The fact that I'm in a stranger's car, and heading to the home of a man I barely exchanged a sentence with, does nothing to alleviate my fear.
And who's to say we are actually in Mr. Amaro's home?
"We're here," the man announces and I let him lead me into the towering home. There are men stationed everywhere, all of them with guns in their waistbands and I gulp as I'm led deeper inside.
We end up in a large sitting room and the man tells me to sit. "Mr. Amaro will be here shortl—," he has barely finished talking when the door bursts open and the man who had infiltrated my dreams last night walks in.
If I thought he looked dangerous yesterday, he looks murderous today.
He has stripped away all traces of formality and is dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. There are two guns strapped to each side of his waist. His face is almost as hard as granite as he stalks over to me.
"Are you okay? Were you hurt?"
I gulp as his fingers grip my face and turn it from side to side.
"I'm okay, Mr. Amaro," I assure him. "Your men came just in time."
Relief floods his face and he drops his hands and sits next to me.
There are about six men in the room and each of them looks furious.
"Call me Saint," he says and if I were in a better mood, I would laugh at the irony of his name.
"This is all my fault," he says, and my brows furrow. His words pierce through the maze of fear in my head.
"How?"
"Those men that attacked you," he continues and I nod. "They did it because I showed an interest. In you."
Interest?
"But there was nobody but us in the room when you—"
I trail off, reminded that there are others listening, and I'm not sure they want to hear about our kiss.
He chuckles but there's no humor in his eyes.
