Page 35 of Savage Saint

Not going to think about the why just yet.

Toro nudges my arm when she loses the battle. Completely.

Curled into the corner with her cheek against one hand, lightly damp curls spread over the cushion, and my shirt slipping off one shoulder, Genesis sleeps. More importantly, something tightens in my chest at the sight.

“I’ll be back. Church is at seven.” Neither man asks me where I’m going. No one stops me; if anything, they move further away from the couch as I cross over to her, bend, and slide one arm beneath her knees and the other under her neck. She barely stirs. Just makes a soft sound before turning into me, cheek settling against my chest.

My hold tightens on the trusting little thing.

She shouldn’t be, especially not with me. I’m a criminal. A killer.

This time, I don’t walk us upstairs but outside to one of the club’s all-black Cadillacs used for moving our guests from one location to the other. The keys are already in the ignition; no one’s stupid enough to steal from our compound, and after settling her inside, I head toward her home. During our drive, I learn two things about her:

She sleep-talks if you ask a question.

She’s too trusting.

“Where are your keys, Pocket Doc?”

An exhale. A little pout. “No key…code.”

“What code?”

“3636,” she mumbles, and smacks my arm with her tiny life-saving hands. It’s an unconscious—reprimand for disrupting her sleep—act that would normally piss me off, but with her, I find it cute.

It also bothers me. Anyone could catch her with her guard down and steal—hurt her.

Her apartment is in one of the newer residential complexes off the Playa Dorada corridor. It’s all white stucco, black-framed windows, and glass balconies with a controlled entry and exit point. There’s a small pool, landscaped courtyard, and assigned parking—modern, but not luxury resort ridiculous.

To my luck, the coded entry was being worked on, and I drove straight through toward her building. The first two numbers of the address on her ID match the parking spot, and I park before turning to look at her.

She’s beautiful. Can’t deny that.

You’re going to be trouble.

Her unit is on the fourth floor, and I carry her inside, taking the empty elevator while studying her face up close. How her long lashes rest against her cheek. How her full lips, pink and soft, are slightly parted.

She looks peaceful. Far too trusting.

I kidnapped her, and feel no remorse.

When the elevator opens, I follow the numbers until I find hers and punch in the code. The lock clicks immediately, and I carry her inside, pausing in the entryway. There’s no other way to describe what I find, but as distinctly her.

What I expect from this short and sassy Latina with a mouth on her.

Warm. Colorful. Lived in.

There are pillows in different shades scattered across an oversized cream couch, a bright throw hanging over the arm, plants near the windows, and books stacked on the glass coffee table. The top four are romances, the titles and covers giving them away.

Then, there are pictures everywhere. Family or friends, her face smiling in every single one.

My eyes linger on a solo shot longer than necessary; I know the place it was taken.

The cascade she’s sunbathing next to, a string bikini on her body while she lies on a towel, small smile on her lips, is on a stretch of land that belongs to my old man’s family. My uncles, who live on the cacao plantation, have allowed people to use the hidden attraction, using a booking site to sell a limited number of tickets per day.

Small world. Even smaller is that bikini.

“Fucking beautiful.”