Page 24 of Savage Saint

“It’s better than finding a bullet inside of him.” I pour saline over the opening, carefully wiping down the dried blood. The front is bleeding more; back here it’s a small, constant dribble.

Another good sign. Helps me breathe a little easier.

“Hold him still.” The two large bikers do as I ask. I’m able to irrigate the wound until the saline mostly runs clear, using sterile gauze to blot the skin around it before reaching for the fresh dressings they prepared before my arrival. “This needs to stay covered until the doctor gets here.” Carefully, I cover the hole and seal the edges with medical tape. “Rizos, I need you to keep an eye on the bedding beneath him. If blood soaks through, tell me.”

“Got it.”

“Okay. Let’s put him back.” Trino groans, and I look at his face. Still pale. Sweaty. Alert. The latter is the one that matters most to me. “I know it hurts, but we’ll go slow. You’re doing great.”

He gives me a nod, and the two men work to ease him onto his back again.

A rush of jittery exhaustion rolls through me then, my body suddenly heavy as the stress of being kidnapped and threatened claws its way back to the front of my mind. I grip the bedrail for a moment, fingers wrapping around the metal and squeezing until my knuckles turn white.

Inhale. Exhale. Slow and steady.

I repeat this five times, and on the last exhale, shove everything back into the overcrowded box once again.

Now is not the time to fall apart.

“Genesis…”

Saint says my name, but I force a small smile and look at Rizos. He seems to know the room and understand a little more than putting on a Band-Aid. “I need to take his vitals and a clean blanket. Point me in the direction of⁠—”

I’m cut off by the sound of a machine rolling over the linoleum. The younger De Leon brother is moving it toward me, but Saint intercepts. They exchange a look; something is said, too low for me to catch, before the Royal Bastards president delivers the vital signs monitor himself.

At this point, I’m not surprised. When I walked in, I barely glanced at the room, but it’s obvious now that they privately treat themselves here. The place is equipped to handle more than a few stitches or a common cold.

Moreover, the machine is similar to what I use every night in the ER, only smaller. It has a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, and a temperature probe—the basics, all connected to one unit.

“I’m not even going to ask how or why you have this.”

“You want the inventory list? I’m sure Doc has one.” Trino snorts, then grimaces. Jerk. “That man is anally organized.”

“No. I want to leave here with plausible deniability.” My response has Saint staring again, and I ignore him. Mostly. “To be honest, I’m kind impressed. Our overnight attending is a mess on a good day and a thief the rest of the time.”

No one says anything. Now they all stare. Okay…

Ignoring the pointed stares, I wrap the cuff around Trino’s arm, clip the pulse oximeter onto his finger, and start the machine. While it works, I move closer to his face. “Look at me.”

“I am.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Trino De La Cruz.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Doc’s treatment room at the clubhouse.”

“What day is it?”

His brows pull together. “Day after a holiday.”

“What holiday?”

“I got fucking shot, Genesis. Is it important?”

“That’s exactly why I’m asking. Come on, big guy. Answer the question.”