Saint's Preciosa (Shadow Reapers MC #3)

1. Luna

Chapter 1

Luna

My knees ache against the hard tile, but I don't dare stop. The red welts on my hands have become so familiar I barely notice them anymore.

"Luna, he's watching you again," Yesenia whispers as she passes by with an armful of towels.

I don't need to look up to know Mikhail Popov, the owner of Golden Touch Day Spa, is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. I can feel his gaze like a physical presence crawling across my skin. Like the cockroaches in our apartment building.

"Almost finished," I say, keeping my head down, my voice deliberately soft and submissive.

"Luna," he addresses me in broken English with a thick Russian accent. "We have special party tomorrow. VIP clients. You work."

Not a request. A command.

"But Mr. Popov, I don't work private parties." My voice comes out weaker than I intended. “I was hired to clean."

His smile never reaches his eyes. "Time for promotion. Good money."

“I-I can't," I say, heart hammering against my ribs. "My grandmother is ill?—"

"We have special clients. Very important men. You will serve drinks. They like pretty girls pour drinks.”

My stomach drops like a stone. My hands shake so badly.

The way he says “pretty girls” makes my skin crawl. I've seen what happens to the girls who work these "parties." They come to work the next day with vacant, hollow eyes, all the life seemingly drained from them. Some don't come back at all.

"I really can't," I say, my voice barely audible.

He squats down, his face uncomfortably close to mine. I can smell the garlic from his lunch, see the yellow tinge to his teeth as he smiles.

His expression hardens. "Your grandmother need food, no? Need rent money?" He taps his pen against the schedule book. "You work party, or maybe I find other girl who want your hours. Maybe I make a call to certain people about illegal Mexican girl working here."

The threat is clear. I’m well aware that ICE is very active these days—we all are. It's the leash he keeps on us—the constant threat of deportation hanging over our heads.

“Yes sir,” I squeak out.

"Good girl.” He smiles, pleased with his victory. "And wear pretty dress. Now, finish here and help Yesenia with fresh linens."

When he finally leaves, I sit back on my heels and close my eyes, trying to hold back tears. I don't have the luxury of crying, and I’m not going to. Not now. Not ever.

Marisol, one of the unlicensed massage therapists, gives me a sympathetic look as I finish scrubbing and gather up my cleaning supplies.

"Your first party?" she asks quietly in Spanish.

I nod, unable to speak.

"Don't drink anything they give you," she whispers, glancing toward the door to make sure no one can hear. "Not even water."

My throat closes up. "What do they make you do?"

Marisol shakes her head, eyes haunted. "Just... Don’t fight…” It seems as though she wants to say more, but her words taper off as she crosses herself. "Not if you want to stay safe."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I'm racing across town to the community clinic, my bag clutched tightly against my side. The sky threatens rain, dark clouds matching my mood.

Inside the sterile waiting room, I head straight to the pharmacy counter. The constant fear of being in public spaces never leaves me—any official-looking person frightens me. My documentation status is the open wound I'm always protecting from salt.

"Martinez," I tell the pharmacy tech, a new guy I don't recognize. My heart rate increases instantly.

"ID?" he asks without looking up.

"I have the prescription number," I say, sliding forward a piece of paper with trembling fingers. "Dr. Patel knows me. I'm here every two weeks for my grandmother's insulin.”

He raises an eyebrow as he studies me for a moment. Finally, he sighs and takes the paper, typing into his computer. "Insurance?"

"No insurance. Cash."

This gets his attention. He looks up, really seeing me for the first time, and his expression softens slightly.

"That'll be eighty-seven dollars for a month's supply."

I bite my lip, doing the math in my head. The electricity bill arrived yesterday—final notice. Our fridge is nearly empty.

"Can I get just two weeks' worth?" I ask, hating how my voice betrays my desperation.

He glances around, then lowers his voice. "Look, I'm not supposed to do this, but..." He types something into the computer. "I can mark this as a partial fill due to stock limitations. Forty-three fifty."

Relief washes over me. "Gracias. Thank you so much."

I count out the exact amount, and the tech hands over the small paper bag with half of what Abuela needs, and I tuck it safely into my inner jacket pocket.

His eyes reflect sympathy, but sympathy doesn't pay the bills.

* * *

I’m three blocks from home when I see them—thugs in blue bandanas loitering outside a liquor store. I know who they are. They’re members of the street gang Los Lobos.

I duck my head and quicken my pace, hoping they won't notice me. No such luck.

"Hey, mamacita!" one calls out. "Why you walking so fast? Venga aquí. We just want to talk."

I keep moving, eyes fixed straight ahead. Footsteps follow, closing the distance between us.

“Not very friendly," another voice says, closer now. "Pretty girl like you should smile more."

I say nothing and don’t turn around. I just completely ignore them. The streets of Wraithport are mostly empty at this hour, shops closed, few witnesses.

“Slow down, we'll walk with you," says the first voice, and suddenly there's a body beside me, too close, the smell of cheap cologne and cigarettes invading my space. "Make sure you get home safe."

I scan the street ahead desperately, looking for an escape route. There’s a convenience store on the corner, but it’s closed for renovations.

I turn sharply to cut through a parking lot, calculating my chances of running when a group of motorcycles roars into the lot, the thunderous sound making conversations impossible.

I figure it’s my chance to run, but one of the gang members grabs my elbow, jerking me backward. “Hey! Where you going, mama?”

I try to free myself, but his grip is punishing. "Leave me alone!"

From the corner of my eye, I see several of the bikers turn our way. "Everything okay over there?" one of them calls out.

The hand on my arm loosens slightly as the young men take in the bikers now staring in our direction.

"Just minding our business,” one of them says, but he’s not so cocky anymore.

I use the moment of distraction to wrench free, quickly putting distance between us until I'm stranded in a no-man's land—closer to the bikers than the gang members, but still vulnerable. Still caught between two groups of dangerous men.

One of the bikers looks up, scans the surroundings with predatory awareness, and narrows his eyes on us. When he strides forward, my breath catches in my throat. He's not the tallest of the group, but something about him commands attention. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built like a boxer, he has dark hair and even darker eyes that gleam in the fading light. His skin is a rich bronze and his full lips are set in a hard line. The patch on his leather vest reads "Sergeant at Arms," and beneath it, "Saint."

Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us—a current so powerful it momentarily makes me forget the danger I’m in. I've never felt anything like it before, this immediate, visceral connection to a complete stranger. My body reacts in unfamiliar ways—heart racing, skin flushing, a strange warmth pooling low in my belly.

"She don't look like she wants to talk to you.” His voice is deep—authoritative, dangerous.

The Los Lobos members hesitate, weighing their options. They're outnumbered and outgunned.

"Whatever, man," one finally says with forced casualness. "Bitch ain't worth it anyway."

They back away, throwing insults to save face, but the threat has passed. Relief washes over me, followed immediately by a new anxiety as I realize I'm now alone on the street with a motorcycle gang. Did I just leap from the frying pan into the fire?

I should thank the bikers and hurry on my way, but I'm rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze from the man in front of me. There's something fierce in his eyes, but it’s not fear that’s making my heart race.

"You okay, preciosa?" The gentleness in his tone contrasts sharply with his intimidating appearance and the endearment catches me off guard. No one has called me "precious" since my father died.

"I'm fine," I manage, finally finding my voice. "Thank you."

He nods once, his intense gaze still locked with mine. Something passes between us again—recognition, connection, possibility.

I force myself to walk away, my legs trembling, feeling his eyes on me with every step. Something makes me glance back over my shoulder.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me—staring at me. Our eyes lock, and a strange heat floods my body, starting in my chest and flowing outward to my fingertips. I've never felt anything like it. His gaze is intense, dark brown eyes burning with something I can't name. He's handsome in a harsh way—dangerous. A tattoo peeks from his collar.

No man has ever looked at me like he does. I’m not even sure what it is in his eyes—lust, protectiveness, possessiveness…recognition.

Then he nods, a slight acknowledgment that sends an inexplicable shiver down my spine.

I break the connection first, turning and forcing my legs to carry me away. When I turn the corner, I finally release a shaky breath.

What was that?

I've spent years making myself invisible, keeping my head down, yet in that single glance, I felt completely exposed.

Three blocks and one fire escape later, I finally reach our apartment—a tiny one-bedroom on the fifth floor of a building with more code violations than working amenities. But it's home, the only one we've had since fleeing Mexico after my parents were killed.

"Abuela?" I call softly as I enter, "I'm home."

A wracking cough answers me, and my heart sinks. She’s had a nagging cold for weeks and it seems to be getting worse.

I find her in the threadbare armchair by the window, rosary beads moving slowly through her fingers. Our ancient chihuahua, Paco, is curled in her lap, his own breathing labored.

"Mi nina," Abuela smiles wearily. "You're late. I was worried."

The small apartment smells of yerba buena tea and Vicks VapoRub—Abuela's home remedies. They can't replace prescription medications, but it’s what we can afford.

I don't mention the gang or the bikers. She’d flip out. "Just busy at work. Have you eaten?" I ask, noting the untouched bowl of pozole on the side table. She made it yesterday from our dwindling pantry supplies.

She waves dismissively. "No appetite."

I press my hand to her forehead—too warm. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be fine,” she says, avoiding my eyes. "The Virgin watches over us."

She gestures to the small altar in the corner with its statue of La Virgen de Guadalupe surrounded by votive candles and a photograph of my parents on their wedding day. My father in his best suit, my mother radiant in her white dress with the red embroidered flowers that now hangs in our tiny closet, preserved like a sacred relic.

"Abuela, I think you need to see a doctor?—"

“No! Doctors cost money," she interrupts, then dissolves into another coughing fit that leaves her gasping for breath. Paco whimpers, nudging her hand with his nose before making a strange honking, gasping sound.

Frustration and desperation wage war inside me. We've had this conversation too many times.

I bite my lip, trying not to cry. This is why I can't quit the spa, no matter what Popov demands. Why I work seven days a week and still barely scrape by. Why I'll probably have to work this weekend's “party," despite every instinct screaming against it.

"Something's wrong with Paco," Abuela says once she catches her breath, stroking the dog's head. "He makes this noise when he tries to breathe. Like he can't get air."

I kneel to examine our little companion. Sure enough, when he gets excited at my attention, he makes an odd gasping sound, his tiny body straining. He needs a vet. Another expense we can't afford.

"First me, now Paco," Abuela says with grim humor. "We are falling apart, our little family."

I take her hand, feeling the bones prominent beneath paper-thin skin. "We're surviving. That's what matters."

One day at a time. That's all I can manage.

As I reheat the soup listening to Abuela's worsening cough and Paco's labored breathing, I allow my mind to wander to more indulgent thoughts. Pleasant ones. Thoughts that stir my blood. Like dark brown eyes that seemed to stare into my soul. And a deep voice calling me preciosa .