Page 7 of Saint's Preciosa
Behind me, a deep voice rumbles through the small room. "Sorry, Soph. Didn't know you were with a patient."
Sophie waves her hand in the air. "No problem, Saint. Just set those in the storage room."
Curious, I turn to look over my shoulder and my heart nearly stops. The blood rushes from my face then surges back with enough force to make me dizzy.
He fills the doorway like he was made for it—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a black thermal shirt, powerful arms laden with boxes of medical supplies, dark eyes that latch onto mine instantly. The biker. The man who's haunted my thoughts since our brief encounter yesterday.
Our gazes lock, and that same electric current from last night hums between us, stronger now in the confined space. Heat rises to my cheeks, spreads down my neck, and culminates in butterflies dancing in my lower belly. My mouth goes dry, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of my shabby clothes, my tired face, my vulnerability.
"Preciosa," he says, the endearment rolling off his tongue with natural ease. The deep timbre of his voice sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
Sophie looks between us, eyebrows raised in silent question, a smile tugging at her lips.
"We've met before," I explain hastily, not wanting her to think—what? That a man like him would have any real connection to a woman like me? "Briefly. Last night."
Instead of leaving with the supplies, Saint steps fully into the room. Despite his intimidating appearance—the visible edges of tattoos at his neckline, the leather vest with its "Sergeant at Arms" patch, the outline of what must be a gun beneath his shirt—he moves with a controlled grace that reminds me of the big cats at the zoo Papá took me to as a child. Powerful, dangerous, beautiful.
Sophie’s mouth is open. She’s saying something about the veterinary clinic’s policy of payment in full up front, but my mind has turned to mush. Her eyes shift to a spot behind me. Is he still there? I’m afraid to look, but I have to know.
I spare a glance over my shoulder again.
Again, his eyes meet mine, his intense gaze unwavering. I feel naked under that stare, as if he can see every worry, every fear, every secret I harbor.
“’Scuse us a minute.” His eyes flick from me to Sophie then back to me. “I need to talk to Sophie,” he says pointedly. “It can’t wait.”
Sophie’s expression changes subtly, a flash of surprise followed by understanding. "I'll be right back.”
Several minutes later, Sophie returns, her features carefully neutral but her eyes sparkling with something that looks like suppressed excitement. "Good news, Ms. Martinez. We have a special program for cases like yours—a fund set up by anonymous donors to help pet owners facing financial hardship."
I blink in surprise, suspicion immediately prickling at the back of my neck. “A…a fund?"
"Yes," Sophie continues smoothly. "It will cover Paco's treatment and medication today as well as continued treatments. All we ask is that you bring him back for his follow-up appointments so we can monitor his progress."
The relief is so sudden and overwhelming that for a moment, I can't speak. Then suspicion creeps in, sharper now. This feels odd. Too good to be true. I know better than to trust something that’s too good to be true.
"I don’t—“ I begin, the words sticking in my throat.
"It's a newer program," Sophie interjects quickly. "Paco qualifies."
I want to refuse. Pride and suspicion war with desperate gratitude. In my world, nothing comes without a price, without strings attached. But I can’t refuse this. I just can’t.
"Gracias," I say finally, my voice thick with emotion.
Sophie reviews his medication schedule with me and fifteen minutes later, I'm heading out the door with Paco—breathing easier after his treatment—nestled in my arms, along with a bag of medications and careful instructions.
Outside, I've gone less than half a block when a lowered car with tinted windows pulls alongside me, bass thumping so hard it vibrates through the pavement into my bones. My heart sinks, and Paco stirs in my arms, sensing my sudden tension. I know that car.
The passenger window slides down, revealing Carlos, one of the Los Lobos gang members who's been making my life hell for months. Three other members are in the car with him—including the two from last night.
"Hola, Luna," he calls, smiling with teeth that gleam too white against his heavily tattooed face. "Where are you rushing to, mamacita?”
I keep walking, eyes forward.
“Don’t be like that.” Carlos opens the door and steps out, blocking my path. More gang members emerge from the back seat, flanking him. One is younger, probably new since he looks eager to prove himself. The most dangerous kind.
“It’s rude to ignore friends who just want to talk business." Carlos's smile disappears.
"I have no business with you,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
