Page 19 of Savage Saint

Every single one of them goes quiet when Saint guides me inside.

No. When they see me.

I feel their eyes on me.

Suspicious. Concern. Distrust.

One man sitting near the bar openly looks me over before his gaze drops to Saint’s hand at the small of my back. A woman beside him whispers something I can’t hear, while another—a little older—simply folds her arms across her chest. None of them look particularly happy to see me.

Fair. I’m not happy to be here under direct threat.

Save him or die don’t exactly give me the warm and fuzzies.

Saint doesn’t acknowledge anyone. His hand remains against my back, steering me without pushing as we cross the room, and I force myself to ignore them. They’re worried, and I understand. I’ve dealt with more than one emotional outburst from a family member in my years as a nurse, and I don’t let it get to me.

This isn’t personal unless he dies. No pressure.

Exhaling, I look back at him. “What happened to him? What kind of injury am I looking at?”

“He was shot.” Again, that’s it. A little frustrating.

“Saint, I’m going to need more information than that.” I hold up four fingers, ticking each one as I explain. “How long ago? Where on his body? Is he awake? And do you have the basics for care before I give you the list of what I’ll need?”

The look he gives me is part annoyed, part amused. Kind of cute in a crazy way. Genesis, get it together. Don’t give in to the panic. “Shoulder and right side were bleeding.”

It’s like pulling teeth.

“Entry from the front or back?”

“Shoulder from the front; he thinks it went through. A lot of blood.”

“And the side?”

“Said it burned.”

My attention sharpens, my head going through what I know of gunshot wounds. The general area he’s describing in so few words. “How long ago?”

“About twenty minutes now.”

Shit. “How much blood? Did anyone put pressure to⁠—”

“A lot.”

“That means nothing to me. Please answer me.” His hand grips the back of my scrubs. He’s accentuating my perky breasts, the fabric groaning under the tight stretch. I love this pair, and he’s going to ruin them. Every part of me wants to scream for him to let go. To stop manhandling me like this.

Then, the room goes too silent.

When I look toward the bar, everyone is gone. Not so much as a cup left behind.

What the hell?

Saint tugs, and I falter a step, my head snapping back to him. His tense expression hasn’t changed, but his jaw ticks. “Enough blood to soak through his shirt and several hand towels, Genesis. We put pressure, and that helped slow it down.”

“Was he conscious throughout?”

“Yes.”

“The entire time?”