Page 86 of Savage Saint

“What?” I ask, caught off guard by that.

“Take it off.”

I glance down at the oversized fabric covering me. “You put this on me.”

“And now we’re inside. Off.”

“What if I say no?”

“Would you like me to do it for you?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”

“Yes.” Simple as. No denying it. “Toss it outside the ring and come to the center.”

My compliance is accompanied by a small act of defiance. I remove the shirt, but toss it near the ropes, not outside of the ring. For his part, Saint doesn’t complain, which is surprising. Instead, he walks over, picks it up, and throws it out himself.

This gives me a clear view of his back. Dios.

A large tattoo encompasses the expanse, stretching from shoulder to shoulder and nearly to his waist. The Royal Bastards MC emblem dominates the center, rendered heavy in black and grey ink, while the club name and chapter identifier arch in bold letters above and below it.

Dark. Detailed. Intimidating.

And somehow, it’s even sexier than the others. It’s him.

His back flexes and straightens, making the ink shift with him, and for one embarrassingly long second, I forget to act unaffected.

Then he turns. “Center of the ring.”

Right. Training.

I walk slowly toward the middle of the mat, refusing to acknowledge the heat crawling up my neck as he stares. His gaze feels like a heated caress, and I feel him everywhere. How he lingers across my chest, hips, and the way the fabric stretches between my thighs.

I’m wet, and he hasn’t even touched me.

Clearing my throat, I try to steer us back. “So what are you teaching me today? I already know how to throw a decent jab.”

That catches him off guard. It feels like a victory.

“You’re going to keep me on my toes,” he says, voice tight. As if the notion offends him, yet he moves closer. His warm, calloused fingers wrap around my wrist as he moves me into position. Saint doesn’t let go until he steps in close behind me. “The first thing you need to understand is that strength doesn’t matter if you know where to attack a hold.”

Now he’s serious. The change is enough that I straighten. “Explain.”

“Most people panic when they’re grabbed from behind. Waste energy trying to pull away from the hold.” Before I can ask what he means, one thick arm locks around my middle and pulls me flush against him. I freeze. Not because of how good he feels, but because for one ugly second, I’m back in the hospital parking lot.

Being grabbed. Threatened. My feet stumbling, my body dragged out into the lot before I fully understood what was happening.

My breathing accelerates as that sensation of fight or flight kicks in, and I do what I failed to do that night. My elbow flies back, catching him in the ribs. I do it again, several times, and Santos lets me.

He lets my nails dig in and break the skin of his forearm.

He lets me have a moment.

Santos feels me shake, and my name on his lips is a soothing balm. An irony that doesn’t make sense—he kidnapped me, and yet I don’t hate him. If anything, I’m leaning in closer.

Why?

“Genesis…look at me, Pocket Doc.” His voice is firmer, his arm dropping from around my waist, and I turn. Meet his honey-colored eyes; they’re soft and worried, and I don’t think twice about throwing my arms around him.