Page 40 of Savage Saint

Volkov.

Henry.

Foreign shooter.

The police connection.

All of it should be occupying my head, but I keep seeing her brown eyes.

Her wet curls dripping down the back of my shirt. How it hung off one small shoulder.

Pocket Doc.

She’s a force of nature in a tiny, curvaceous body. There’s no denying her beauty.

I noticed it the moment I grabbed her, even hidden beneath the bright, cheery scrubs.

Genesis is short. Mouthy. Naturally rosy cheeks across tanned skin and long, dark hair that curls in a way that makes me want to tug it.

Exhaling roughly, I make a U-turn and head toward her apartment complex. It doesn’t take me long to reach the main guard station; I stop on the other side of the gate. There wasn’t anyone on duty when I dropped her off; they were working on the code reader, but the man inside now makes eye contact before quickly looking away, opening the door without me asking.

“Buenas noches, Saint,” he says, eyes down. I don’t respond right away, and he fidgets. Can’t stop the urge to see what I’m doing and meets my stare for a second time.

I know him. He’s the older brother of one of my prospects. He’s been to a club barbecue once.

“Buenas.” Without another word, I ride toward her building, the Road Glide’s deep exhaust rumbling through the quiet complex, reverberating against the stucco walls before I kill the engine in front of her building. Same parking spot. Right in front of the main door.

Fourth floor. One light is on.

I sit there longer than I should. Shouldn’t be here at all—have no reason to be.

Why are you here, Saint?

My phone vibrates against my thigh, and I pull it out, expecting one of two people. Rizos or Jameson, and it’s the latter. President of the mother chapter.

On the second ring, I press the answer button. “Jameson.”

“Saint.” His voice is deep, serious. “You said we need to talk.”

My gaze drifts to her window. “Yeah. We do.”

10

SAINT

Jameson doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Neither do I.

From where I’m sitting, I can still see the light inside Genesis’s apartment. Fourth floor. Same window I’ve been staring at longer than I should. I shouldn’t be here at all.

My Road Glide ticks softly beneath me as the engine cools, metal contracting in the humid night air, while somewhere beyond this building, I hear music from a passing car. The bass fades as it leaves the area, the old-school merengue one I recognize from my youth.

A favorite of my parents.

The breeze has picked up. The palm fronds scrape together overhead.

Finally, Jameson speaks. “Start from the beginning.”