Page 27 of Savage Saint

The man I can only assume is Doc gives him a flat look back. “Thank you, Kaos. Couldn’t figure that out from the fucking blood all over my floor.”

Bedside manners get a one from me. At least I made a few jokes.

Doc drops the bag, and like me, washes his hands first. Only then does he snap on gloves, and I step aside as he does. “Through-and-through to the outer shoulder. The second bullet appears to have grazed his right side without entering. I cleaned and dressed the exit wound, irrigated the graze, and left the front shoulder wound accessible for you. Bleeding is controlled.”

His attention shifts to me, and I hand him the notes I made with Trino’s vitals.

“Who—”

“Long story. Maybe later.” By now, Saint is back in the room minus the brothers. They’re gone. “He lost consciousness briefly before I got here, but he’s been alert since. Pressure is low but stable compared to the initial reading Rizos took. Pulse elevated, and oxygen saturation is good. Pupils are equal and reactive. No difficulty breathing, nausea, or numbness. Circulation and movement in the injured arm look good, too.” I gesture toward the machine before he can ask questions not pertaining to the patient. “I was about to get an X-ray. The shoulder looks clean, but I’d rather confirm there aren’t any fragments or damage we can’t see.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then his eyes narrow.

They go from my uniform to my face a few times. “You’re from the ER department at the main hospital.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen you there.”

Studying him, nothing clicks. “Sorry. I don’t remember you.”

“You wouldn’t.” A smile curls at his lips the longer he looks at me. “Alvin just adores you.”

A few slow blinks. “Dr. Rodriguez?”

“Yeah.” Now that smile is an amused smirk. “He loves to complain about your mouth. His favorite headache.”

That petty hoarding jerk. “My mouth?”

“More than once. Actually texted me an hour ago to say you took⁠—”

“Did he conveniently leave out the part where he hoards all the good snacks? That he stole my last bag of chips?”

“According to him, it was a short-term loan.”

“Then I guess my last coffee heist will be called compensation.” I’m going to make his life hell on our next shift together. “That man five-finger discounted my donuts, Takis, and hazelnut chocolates. He has no shame or remorse, either. How dare he complain.”

Doc laughs, his demeanor much calmer than when he first walked in. “You borrowed quite the spitfire, Presidente. Smart, and won’t take shit; I might leave her in charge next month and go visit my daughter up in Boston.”

Loan?

Borrowed?

Next time…?

But before I can say anything to correct how wrong all of that was, I feel it. Him. His hand is on my lower back: warm, large, and enveloping the expanse while Saint’s deep timbre vibrates through me as they speak. He says something that makes Trino look at me carefully, but my comprehension skills seem to have vacated the premises, and I can’t make out a single word.

All I can focus on is his hand.

How his fingers absentmindedly grab the back of my scrubs, tugging me a few steps back.

The scent of leather and rum.

“Let’s go, Genesis.” And just like that, I’m no longer necessary. The three other bikers each give me a polite nod, a silent thank you, before Doc and Rizos begin the X-rays. This should be a relief; I’m done, and no one died, but instead I’m filled with a bone-deep exhaustion that makes my steps falter.

For a moment, I think I’m going to trip into the door’s casing—my face getting intimately acquainted with the wood—but that same warm hand keeps me upright. Saint’s fingers grip my hip, walking me toward the main room of the clubhouse in absolute silence.

Once again, every conversation stops the minute we walk in. This time, though, there are no hostile looks of distrust, but I’m given the same nods Doc, Rizos, and Trino gave me a few minutes ago.