Page 22 of Saint's Preciosa
Luna
I collapse onto the sagging couch as exhaustion crashes over me. The thin blanket I keep folded underneath does little to soften the springs that poke through the worn cushions, but tonight I barely notice the discomfort. My body still tingles with the memory of Saint's hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, the pleasure that coursed through me at his touch.
My cheeks flush hot at the memory. I've never experienced anything like that before—never even known such intensity was possible. The way he looked at me...
Paco curls up against my side, his tiny body radiating warmth. He’s doing so much better, thanks to the medication. Still…
No job. Eviction looming. Abuela as sick as ever.
And yet, strangely, I feel almost hopeful. Because of Saint—Javier. Can I actually trust him? A man who blows up buildings and carries weapons as casually as others carry cell phones?
A man who made me feel things I've never felt before...
Sleep takes me before I can untangle my conflicting thoughts, dragging me into dreams filled with dark eyes that see straight through me.
I jolt awake to loud moaning and Paco's frantic barking. For a moment, I'm disoriented, my brain struggling to separate dream from reality. Then I hear it—a heavy thud from Abuela's room.
"Abuela?" I call, my heart pounding as I rush toward her bedroom, stumbling over my own feet in my haste.
The sight that greets me freezes my blood. Abuela lies crumpled on the floor beside the bed, her nightgown twisted around her thin legs, her silver hair spilling from its usual tight bun.
"Abuela!" I drop to my knees beside her, hands hovering uselessly as I assess her condition. Her skin burns against my palm when I touch her forehead, and her breathing comes in short, labored gasps. Her eyes are closed, face ashen except for two bright spots of fever on her cheeks.
"Abuela, please, wake up," I plead, gently patting her face. "Please..."
Her eyelids flutter but don't open. A faint moan escapes her cracked lips, but she shows no other sign of consciousness.
Panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me. I need help—I need to call an ambulance. Neither of us has a phone. Luxury items like cell phones are for people with steady incomes. Mrs. Ramirez next door has a landline, she lets me use when I really need to. I hate to wake her up so late, but this is an emergency.
I press a quick kiss to Abuela's burning forehead. "Hold on. I'll get help."
Racing to the door, I fling it open only to collide with a solid wall of muscle. Hands steady me before I can stumble backwards, and I find myself staring up into Saint’s handsome face.
"Saint?" His name comes out as a bewildered gasp.
He takes in my disheveled appearance, the panic written clearly across my face. "What's wrong?" His body is tense as if preparing for battle.
"It's Abuela," I manage, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the apartment with strength born of desperation. "She fell—she won't wake up?—"
I don't need to say more. Saint follows me to the bedroom, assessing the situation in a single glance. He kneels beside my grandmother, his expression grim as he checks her pulse.
"How did you—what are you doing here?" I ask, watching as he places two fingers against Abuela's neck, counting silently.
"Saw your light go on," he answers simply. "Came up to check."
The implication that he's been watching the apartment all this time should probably alarm me, but all I feel is relief that he's here when I need him.
Abuela stirs, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she seems confused, her gaze unfocused as it drifts around the room. Then her eyes land on Saint, and awareness sharpens her features.
"Tú otra vez," she croaks, her voice barely audible.You again.
Despite the dire situation, a hint of a smile touches Saint's lips. "Sí, señora, me again."
He slips his arms beneath her frail body, lifting her as effortlessly as if she were a child. Abuela makes a weak sound of protest, but lacks the strength for her usual fiery objections.
"Put me down," she demands, though her voice holds no conviction.
"Not happening," Saint replies, placing her gently on the bed. "You've got a fever hot enough to fry eggs, and you just took a header onto the floor. We need to get you to the emergency room.”
