Page 112 of Savage Saint

Phones start ringing as directions are given:

One heads to her apartment, then her parents’ house; they have the right to know.

While my team drives toward the warehouse where her phone last checked in.

It’s just as Janelle said. This is the industrial part of town, where a few large, empty buildings are now being rented to business owners with online ventures.

Commerce. Offices. Filming sets for short-form dramas with foreign actors filming here before heading back home.

1110 is at the far end, away from the busier section.

28

SAINT

TAKEN, NOT BORROWED

Icome to with a start, the jostle of a car hitting a pothole forcing my body to lift, then slam into my seat. I’m not sure what’s going on yet, but my mind screams to stay quiet.

Breathe. Don’t move.

Breathe. Don’t move.

“You sure they won’t find the bitch before we have our fun?” a male voice asks, and my brows furrow. I’ve heard it before, but where?

And more importantly, who’s the bitch?

“She’s not your concern.” Another man, voice cold, with an accent I don't recognize. Definitely not from here, though. “If you’re scared, leave.”

“I’m not fucking scared, Volkov. I’m owed.” That first voice again. Louder, and what sounds like a smack against something hard and plastic. “The Royal Bastards killed my father, and she will pay for that.” A sharp bark of laughter follows. “Never liked her much anyway. Stuck up, mouthy, and giving my whore ideas about speaking her mind.”

That sniveling little shit head.

Emilio Montalvo.

My stomach drops when I think of her message. Was that him or her? Did he hurt her?

I keep my breathing shallow, cracking my eyes just enough to see through my lashes. And yeah, it’s him. Short curls, a piercing in his left ear, and he likes to dress like he’s forever heading to the country club to play a round of golf.

My eyes shift around the car, and I realize I’m sprawled across the back of an SUV with dark tints, my wrists tied in front of me. I’m also missing both shoes, and my phone isn’t anywhere I can see or feel.

Fantastic.

Emilio glances back then while the other man drives; all I can make out of him is blond hair. “She moved.”

“Awake yet?”

“No. Just shifted.” Emilio shakes his head and turns back to face the front. That gives me a small chance to test my restraints, but I can’t create enough space to slip my hand out.

I have no idea how far we drive or if I’m still in Puerto Plata, but I’m very aware of the annoyance of the driver. A couple of times, while Emilio complains about random shit, he cuts him a look.

It’s not friendly. That tells me more than anything.

They’re not friends. No love lost.

The SUV slows several minutes later, then turns sharply. A rolling door rattles somewhere, and then it gets dark as we drive inside. I can’t see anything, but I hear the doors open, and low lighting kicks on—it illuminates what looks like an oversized storage room.

Is this a commercial building?