Page 18 of Savage Saint

And yet, beneath the good looks and dried blood, I recognize the worry. The fear,

I see it every day:

Mothers standing beside their children’s beds.

Husbands pacing emergency room hallways while their wives are being examined.

Loved ones trying not to cry as the attending on shift walks into the sterile room with news that could destroy them.

But more than that, I know that fear doesn’t always come with tears.

Sometimes it’s anger. Demands. Threats.

Today, though, I’m being hit by all three and a gun, topping off this clusterfuck of a morning.

Christ, help me get out of this alive. Let the kidnapper not kill the kidnappee. Amen.

“Take me to him…” I trail off, leaving the implied question hanging in the air.

His hazel eyes narrow slightly. “Saint.”

That’s it. No last name. No explanation.

Just Saint.

My eyes drop to the black leather vest covering his broad chest, ignoring the menacing tattoos over the base of his throat. A rectangular PRESIDENT patch is stitched high on one side, while ROYAL BASTARDS MC sits right below. On the other side is a one-percenter identifier and what I think is a chapter identifier that I don’t quite understand.

The same insignia is worn by the men at the gate, carved into the open door I’m standing in front of.

Dios mio. Help me.

Again, I look at Saint’s leather vest and take in the worn leather that’s creased around the edges. It’s molded to his body—from years of use and his thick, muscular frame—yet every patch is immaculate. No blood. No dirt. As if both decided to stain everything but the white rectangles with black stitching.

Christ, I’ve heard of them. Everyone in Puerto Plata has.

They moved in years ago, taking control of the ports and streets—the club owns and profits from the nightlife here. Liquor, drugs, and money don’t move without their approval.

This is bad, and he is worse. I also won’t get far if I run.

Assess. Treat. Monitor.

I repeat the words in my head three times before exhaling roughly. And with that exhale, I push him and his club and where I am into a little box in the back of my mind.

I’ll panic about it later.

“Take me to him, Saint.” This time, my voice is stronger. No tremor or hesitation.

Without a word, his large, warm hand settles on the small of my back and pushes me forward. His touch is firm as we walk into a large main room with an open layout that looks like a cross between a pool hall and living room built exclusively for people who don’t want outsiders around.

A long wooden bar takes up most of the back wall, liquor bottles lining the shelves behind it and several beer taps mounted beneath a large Royal Bastards emblem. There are multiple couches and oversized leather chairs gathered around low tables throughout the room, while farther right, a very long dining room table sits beneath hanging lights.

Pool tables. Card tables. A stripper pole.

Masculine. Dark. Surprisingly clean.

But more than that, there are people everywhere.

Men in vests like Saint’s are scattered throughout the room, some standing while others sit with untouched drinks or coffee cups in their hands. There are a few women, too, dressed in everything from tight jeans and tank tops to lingerie.