Page 17 of Saint's Preciosa
"Put me down!" she demands, struggling ineffectively against my grip. "I can walk!"
"No time," I tell her, already sprinting toward the exit.
Chapter7
Luna
The blood rushes to my head as Saint carries me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
"Put me down!" My fists pound uselessly against his broad back.
He doesn't respond, his strong stride never falters as he runs from the spa. Behind us, I hear shouting, car doors slamming, engines starting. I twist my neck, catching glimpses of other women being ushered into vehicles by men in leather vests similar to Saint’s, but we don’t stop.
It’s not until we're tucked into a narrow alley between two brick buildings that Saint finally sets me on my feet. The walls rise high on either side, confining us in shadow. A lone streetlight at the alley's entrance casts just enough light to illuminate his face—hard angles and dark eyes. His hands linger at my waist to steady me but I immediately push him away, my fury battling with my fear.
"What do you think you're doing?" I hiss, straightening my clothes with shaking hands.
"I'm saving your ass," he growls back, his dark eyes flashing in the dim light. "That place was about to go up in flames."
As if on cue, a muffled boom echoes through the night, so powerful I feel the vibration through the soles of my shoes. I look up to see an orange glow illuminating the sky. My hand flies to my mouth, shock momentarily silencing me.
"You...you blew up the day spa,” I whisper, the reality of the situation crashing down on me. "You actually blew it up."
Saint steps closer, his massive frame forcing me to look at him. "The man you worked for? He was trafficking women. Selling them. You get that, right?”
“Yes, I get that,” I admit quietly, wrapping my arms around myself as a chill slithers into my bones. "But you don’t understand. I really needed the job and—" My voice breaks as the full implications hit me. Now I have nothing. No job, no money, no way to keep a roof over our heads. “You don’t understand what you've done.”
Saint's expression softens slightly, the hard lines around his mouth easing. "I understand better than you think."
"No, you don't!" I push against his chest, my palms meeting solid muscle beneath his leather vest. Panic rises in my throat. "My grandmother is sick. We're being evicted. I was scrubbing floors in that hellhole because I had no other options, and now?—"
My tirade is cut short as Saint captures my wrists in his large hands, not painfully, but firmly enough to stop my assault on his chest. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arms.
"I can help you," he says, his voice lower now, intense.
I laugh, the sound brittle and humorless, echoing off the brick walls around us. "Right. Out of the goodness of your heart? Men like you don't help women like me."
His eyes darken, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "What do you know about men like me?"
"I know enough," I fire back, though my body betrays me, responding to his proximity with a rush of heat. "You're dangerous. A criminal."
The rough brick wall presses against my back as I retreat from his intensity, the texture scraping slightly through my shirt. A dripping drainpipe creates a steady rhythm, marking time as we stand locked in this moment.
"Yes," he admits without hesitation. "I am dangerous. But not to you." His thumb traces circles on my inner wrist, his touch gentler than I would have thought possible from hands so large and strong. "Not to you, preciosa."
The tenderness in that last word unravels something inside me. How can this man—this intimidating, violent man—speak to me with such reverence? How can his touch be so tender when I've seen the destruction he's capable of?
"Why do you call me that?" The question escapes before I can stop it, my voice softer than intended.
"Because you are." His grip on my wrists loosens, but he doesn't let go, instead sliding his hands up my arms in a caress that leaves goosebumps in its wake. "Precious."
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird trying to break free. This can't be happening. The way Saint looks at me—like I'm something rare and valuable, something to be cherished.
"I'm also illegal," I remind him, the word bitter on my tongue. My voice drops to barely above a whisper, the admission terrifying even in this secluded space. "Undocumented."
"I don't give a fuck about that,” he interrupts, his expression fierce. "The Shadow Reapers have our own laws. Our own code. You think I care what some bureaucrat says about who belongs where?"
His passion is mesmerizing, his conviction so absolute it shakes my own certainties. He may be dangerous, but I'm drawn to him, pulled by a force I can't explain.
