Page 113 of Savage Saint

“Get her,” the blond man says, and I’m grabbed under the arms. It’s hard, but I let my muscles loosen, my eyes fully closing, expression neutral.

Emilio curses, stumbling a bit as he carries me inside. “Fuck, she’s heavy.”

“Quit bitching and get her upstairs.”

Yes. Definitely not friends.

Emilio adjusts his hold, muttering under his breath—calling him an azaroso de mierda—while carrying me toward the staircase. My head hangs against his arm, giving me small glimpses of where we are.

Concrete floors and exposed beams. There are bright lights mounted on stands.

A lot of cameras.

It’s hard to make out what’s inside partitioned areas, but one looks like a bedroom, and my stomach sinks. This isn’t a storage or commercial building; it’s a studio.

Suddenly, losing my shoes becomes completely unimportant.

I count sixteen steps before Emilio reaches the second floor. He continues down a long hallway before entering a room and dropping me on an old chair hard enough that my teeth click together.

Asshole.

Still, I don’t move.

“Wake her up,” the man he called Volkov says, and I didn’t realize he’d followed us upstairs.

“With pleasure.”

“Stop.” That stops Tatiana’s ex-boyfriend from getting close again, but then my heart pounds harder. It almost beats out of my chest when Volkov moves somewhere behind me, and his fingers curl beneath my chin, lifting my face. “She’ll wake up soon enough.”

“And then?”

“Then we work.” Work? What does that mean? Ice slides down my spine. “I’ll be right back. Going to check on the lighting and props.”

“What about me?”

Volkov lets go of my chin, then does something that shocks me—I’m unrestrained. The bindings on my wrist fall somewhere, but he doesn’t step back yet. “Just keep an eye on her. Can you handle that?”

Emilio laughs. The sound is a bit forced. “I won’t damage her. Quit worrying.”

“Montalvo, don’t test me. You’re here because I’m allowing it.”

That wipes the smile from his face, and the second Volkov walks out, Emilio looks at me differently. Meaner. “I know you’re awake, Genesis. Open your eyes.”

I don’t reply. Don’t move.

Then something hits my face, and I can’t control my automatic reaction. My eyes fly open, hand cupping my nose. It stings, and when I look down, I find Tatiana’s phone in my lap. On the screen, there’s a picture of her crying with a red handprint on her left cheek.

What the fuck? When did⁠—

“Your little friend should’ve learned to keep her mouth shut.”

“You sick hijo de puta. I’ll⁠—”

“I’m going to do so much worse to you. Always meddling…always having a fucking opinion.”

“And you’ll always be useless without Daddy telling you what to do.” That hit a nerve. Emilio yanks me up by the collar of my shirt, fist pulled back, but then the phone chimes. It pings five times in rapid succession, and then stops.

Just stops as we both see a message on the screen.