Page 77 of Savage Saint

He was running—sweaty and imposing—and for a second, I thought it was Saint.

Almost said his name, but the man didn’t have a leather vest. I’ve never seen Saint without his.

Every nerve ending in my body responded to the possibility; I closed my eyes just long enough to exhale slowly, and when they opened again, the man was gone. As if he’d never been there.

It wasn’t him. That’s what I still tell myself days later. Over and over, but then again, too many coincidences can quickly turn into reality.

I know I heard a motorcycle or two.

Before Saint borrowed me, I’d seen them sporadically. They weren’t an everyday thing for me, but since then, more than once a day. After dark outside my building. Near my favorite café. The sound is unmistakable: deep, loud, and powerful enough that the rumble vibrates through the glass before fading into the distance.

Moreover, every time I look, there’s nothing. Figment of my imagination.

No honey-colored eyes watching from across the parking lot.

He didn’t contact me either.

The last one bothers me. More than it should. More than I’ll ever admit.

Especially when an hour ago, the text from an unknown number gave me butterflies.

Be ready at six, Pocket Doc. I’m coming for you. ~

He had my number all this time.

Didn’t allow me the courtesy of backing out.

Which I would have.

Saint makes me nervous. More than that, I should hate the man who kidnapped me—threatened me—but I don’t. I didn’t call the cops on him. Didn’t tell anyone what happened. And instead of being angry, I’m standing here debating what to wear.

Something is wrong with me.

Because I’m allowing this. Letting him insert himself into my life and drive me crazy.

“He’s doing this on purpose.” My eyes flick to my new alarm clock; a sleek design that claims it’ll wake me up gently. I bought it on a whim. It reads five-forty; I’m running out of time and purse my lips as I look back at my closet. “What do I wear?”

Twenty minutes to decide what a woman wears when a dangerous man she hasn’t stopped thinking about for seven days is coming to pick her up is unfair. Especially for a self-defense lesson.

On a normal date with a regular man, I’d wear something short and cute.

Today is anything but a simple meet-up.

I’m nervous. Shouldn’t be excited to get sweaty with the same man who kidnapped me.

“Diosito, illuminate me with wisdom and fashion sense. May my choice do all the work...amen.” I skim my choices, but they’re either too dressed up or hobo chic, with a few slutty pieces mixed in. “This won’t do.”

Turning, I eye my workout clothes drawer. Most of it is yoga pants and extra-large shirts I stole from my father or tanks with built-in bras. Everything is older⁠—

Wait. Hold up. Oh yeah…

Crossing the room, I open the drawer and dig toward the back until plastic rustles beneath my fingers. I pull out a bag with the tags still attached to its contents, and find the deep plum workout set I bought months ago—a sports bra with a zipper in the front and fitted shorts with ruching down the center seam to accentuate the curve of my ass.

I’ve always had curves, probably more than someone my height and build should have, and most days, I don’t go out of my way to show them off.

Today, though? I want Santos to see.

The admission should embarrass me, but it doesn’t.