Page 56 of Savage Saint

Tatiana.

Unknown number.

Two from my mother…

My eyes go back to the unknown number, thumb hovering over it for a second before deciding I’m not ready to adult much less investigate what telemarketer I need to block.

Everything can wait—my missing wallet case cannot.

Shifting to my knees, I sit on them and pick up my ID, cards, and my keys next to it. Everything that had been inside the little pockets is stacked neatly together, almost insultingly organized. Again, what the hell?

Then I notice the folded paper beneath them, and my brows pull together. There’s no reason for a note to be sitting beside my belongings. None.

I’m a tosser. Receipts, mail…notes.

All of it is trash to me.

And yet, I find myself reaching for it and that’s when I notice the oversized black shirt, not-mine basketball shorts, and long tube socks. My lack of underwear. None of these are mine.

“Oh God,” I whimper as my stomach drops, everything coming back in one violent rush.

The hospital entrance.

A large, firm hand on my arm.

The deep voice in my ear.

If he dies, I’ll bury you with him.

The clubhouse.

So much blood.

Trino on the table while men in leather cuts watched every move I made.

Santos De La Cruz.

The president of the Royal Bastards standing over me, his honey-colored eyes boring into mine—his scent invading my personal space. His intensity while I took care of his brother, the way he demanded I follow him downstairs after my shower.

I fell asleep surrounded by strangers.

He was inside my home unsupervised.

“This is bad. Really bad.” Heat climbs up my face even though humiliation should be somewhere near the bottom of my current list of concerns. Because I’m home, in my bed, and a total stranger delivered me after threatening to off me if I didn’t perform a miracle.

Thank Diosito it wasn’t a worst-case scenario.

My gaze drops to the clothes again, and I sigh; I’m fully covered. Good, but this only solves one problem.

“What did Saint do in my house?” I snatch up the note and unfold it; the handwriting is surprisingly neat. Two short lines.

See you soon, little Pocket Doc.

There’s some blinking on my part. Then I read it again.

Five times.

“That’s it?” I’m a little insulted.