Page 12 of Saint's Preciosa
Aware of her inexperience, I take it easy at first, keeping the speed moderate, avoiding sharp turns. But soon I feel her relaxing against me, her body moving with mine as we lean into curves. She's a natural, anticipating each shift of my weight, following my lead without hesitation.
"You're mine now, preciosa," I murmur, too low for her to hear over the engine's roar.
But somehow, I think she already knows.
Chapter5
Luna
The rush of wind against my face as we speed through the streets of Wraithport is exhilarating. Saint's broad back is warm and solid against my chest, his leather smooth beneath my fingertips. I've never felt anything like this—the vibration of the powerful machine, the passing world a blur of colors, the strange freedom that comes with surrendering control.
For these few precious minutes, I forget everything—about Abuela's rattling cough, about bills piled on the kitchen counter, about the leering looks Popov gives me at work. I just exist in this moment, pressed against a dangerous man who somehow makes me feel safer than I have in years.
When Saint pulls up in front of my apartment building—the peeling paint and cracked concrete suddenly embarrassing—the spell breaks. Reality crashes back, heavy and demanding as an overdue debt.
Reluctantly I unwind my arms from his waist, already missing his warmth.
He cuts the engine and helps me dismount before retrieving Paco from the saddlebag. The little dog seems pleased with his adventure, looking between Saint and me with curious eyes, his breathing much steadier after the medication.
Saint hands Paco to me, his fingers lingering against mine. "I'll see you soon, preciosa," he says, and it sounds like a promise rather than a goodbye, and I wonder… Is it? Will I see him again?
I should tell him not to come back. I should explain that my life is complicated enough without adding a tattooed biker to the mix. But the words die in my throat.
"Gracias," I say instead, "for everything."
His smile transforms his face, softening the hard edges into something almost boyish. "De nada."
I force myself to turn away, clutching Paco to my chest as I climb the familiar, crumbling stairs to the fifth floor. The elevator's been broken for months, and by the time I reach our door, I'm winded, my legs weak from the climb and from whatever Saint has awakened in me with that devastating kiss.
That's when I see it—a bright orange notice taped to our apartment door. The blood drains from my face as I read the bold letters: EVICTION NOTICE. Two short words that might as well be a death sentence.
With shaking hands, I tear it off and scan the details. Three days. We have three days to pay the back rent or vacate. The amount listed makes my head swim—six hundred dollars we don't have. Can't possibly get in time.
"No, no, no," I whisper, fumbling with my keys. Paco whines softly, sensing my distress.
Inside, our apartment is quiet except for the wheezing coughs coming from the bedroom.
I set Paco down, watching as he scampers to his water bowl, seemingly energized by the medication from the vet. At least something is going right.
"Abuela?" I call, tucking the eviction notice into my pocket before she can see it. One catastrophe at a time.
She doesn't answer, but I find her sitting up in bed, rosary beads clutched in her gnarled fingers. Her face is ashen, lined with pain, and her breath rattles in her chest, wet and labored like a drowning person fighting for air.
"How is he?"
"Paco's much better," I answer, perching on the edge of the bed. “It’s his throat. The doctor gave him medicine. He's breathing normally now."
She nods, eyes closed. "Gracias a Dios."
I place my hand against her forehead—burning hot, the skin dry as paper. "Abuela, you need to see a doctor. Your fever is worse."
"No." The word is firm despite her weakness, her eyes suddenly sharp with fear and pride. "No doctors. No hospitals."
"But—"
"They'll ask for papers, insurance,” she cuts me off, her voice rising despite its hoarseness. "They'll report us. Ship us back like cattle." The words trigger a coughing fit so violent it shakes the thin mattress and leaves a speckle of blood on her tissue.
I grab the glass of water from the nightstand and help her take small sips until the spasm passes. "There are clinics," I try again, more gently. "Places that don't ask questions."
