Page 23 of Saint's Preciosa
Abuela's face contorts in fear and anger. "No! No hospital!" She clutches at Saint's arm with surprising strength given her condition. "Promise me—no hospital."
I hover anxiously at the bedside, torn between knowing she needs medical attention and understanding her terror, especially now when immigration enforcement has become so aggressive.
"Abuela, please," I beg. "You're really sick."
"I know someone," Saint interrupts, his eyes meeting mine with understanding I hadn't expected. "Club doctor. He's discreet."
Relief washes over me, as Saint pulls out his phone, stepping aside to make the call. His voice is low and commanding as he gives our address and a brief description of Abuela's symptoms. I busy myself with wetting a washcloth with cold water to place on her forehead, murmuring soothing words in Spanish as I try to make her more comfortable.
"Luna," Abuela whispers, catching my hand in hers. Her skin feels like paper stretched over bone. "Don't trust him."
"Shh," I soothe, stroking back her sweat-dampened hair. "It's okay. He's not what you think.”
"First they help, then they own you,” she insists, her eyes bright with fever and fear.
I don't know how to explain to her that it feels too late for warnings. That something inside me already belongs to Saint in a way I don't fully understand myself. That when he touches me, all the reasons I should stay away, all the warnings, they simply evaporate.
"Doc's on his way," Saint announces, returning to the bedside. "Ten minutes, tops."
Abuela glares at him with all the ferocity her weakened state can muster. "I don't need your doctor."
"With all due respect, señora, you do,” Saint replies, not unkindly. "Your breathing isn't right, your fever's dangerously high, and you just passed out. That's not something you cure with herbal tea."
His bluntness startles a laugh from me despite the situation, earning me a look of betrayal from Abuela. But there's no time to apologize because Paco scampers into the room, yipping excitedly as he plants his front paws on Saint's leg, tail wagging frantically.
Saint crouches down, patting Paco's head. "Hey there, little warrior. Taking good care of your ladies?"
Paco responds with enthusiastic licks, completely enamored with this dangerous man who has entered our lives.
Abuela narrows her eyes at the dog who remains happily oblivious to her disapproval.
Less than ten minutes later there's a knock at the door. Saint moves to answer it with the fluid grace of a predator, checking through the peephole before opening the door to admit a tall, lean man with salt-and-pepper hair and intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carries a worn leather medical bag that looks like something from another era.
"This is Doc," Saint introduces simply. "Doc, this is Luna and her grandmother..."
"Elena," I supply when he hesitates. "Elena Martinez."
Doc nods a greeting, his manner professional yet kind as he approaches the bed. "May I?" he asks Abuela in surprisingly fluent Spanish.
Some of the tension leaves Abuela's shoulders at being addressed in her native language. She gives a small nod, though suspicion still clouds her eyes.
I watch anxiously as Doc examines her—checking her pulse, listening to her lungs with his stethoscope, taking her temperature. His expression grows increasingly grave with each assessment.
"Pneumonia," he finally pronounces, closing his bag with a decisive snap. "Rather advanced, I'm afraid. You’ll need IV antibiotics, oxygen, and round-the-clock monitoring."
My heart sinks. "But?—"
“No. I refuse to go to a hospital," Abuela interrupts, her voice weak but determined. "I would rather die in my own bed."
Doc exchanges a look with Saint, who runs a hand through his hair. "There's another option," Saint says slowly. "The clubhouse. Doc can set up everything she needs there."
Abuela looks horrified. "Your...motorcycle gang house? Never!"
"It's a club, not a gang," Saint corrects. “And we have proper medical equipment—medical equipment that you need. Let me be very clear here. It’s either the clubhouse or the ER.”
I look between them, hope and trepidation warring in my chest. "Is it...safe at the clubhouse?”
The corner of Saint's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "For you two? Safest place in Wraithport."
