4. Saint
Chapter 4
Saint
"You want to explain what that was about?" Blade’s knowing smirk tells me he's enjoying this rare glimpse of me giving a shit about someone.
I try to appear casual. “Not sure what you mean.”
“Right." He snorts. “You practically threw your wallet at my ol’ lady and told her to cover all treatments for some scrawny aging mutt—past, present, and future."
I shrug, avoiding his gaze.
“Do you know that chick or something?”
I ignore him, but Blade refuses to let it drop. “Wait a minute. Is she the one those punks were hassling outside the bar last night?”
“Yep.” I glance toward the clinic door, half hoping to catch another glimpse of her before she leaves. Luna. According to Sophie, her name’s Luna.
Blade whistles low. "Never seen you hung up on a woman before, brother. Usually it's fuck 'em and forget 'em with you."
I shoot him a warning glare that would make most men back off, but Blade just chuckles. We've spilled blood together, saved each other's asses more times than I can count. He's earned the right to give me shit.
Before I can fire back a response, my burner phone buzzes. Ghost's number flashes on the screen.
"Yeah?" I answer, all business now.
"Need you two back at the compound. Intel on Kovalev just came in.”
"On our way," I confirm, ending the call.
"Duty calls," Blade says, heading for the van parked next to my bike.
I swing my leg over my Harley and fire it up when I spot them across the street—Luna, clutching her tiny dog, surrounded by four gangbangers in blue bandanas. Fucking Los Lobos again. Is this a regular thing for her, this harassment?
A cold fury settles in my gut. I’ll put a stop to that. "Go on without me," I tell Blade, my eyes never leaving Luna. "I got something to handle first."
Blade follows my gaze, instantly assessing the situation with the tactical awareness that makes a great VP. "Want backup?"
"Nah. Just a few punk-ass bitches. I got this." I crack my knuckles, the sound loud in the quiet parking lot. "I'll catch up. This won't take long."
Blade nods. "Do what you gotta do, brother."
As he peels away, I stalk across the street, blood humming with anticipation. Some men hunt for sport. I hunt for purpose. Right now, my purpose is crystal clear—get those fuckers away from my woman.
My woman?
The thought should give me pause—should make me step back and examine what the fuck is happening to me—but it feels right in a way I can't explain. From the moment I saw her, something clicked into place—like finding a missing puzzle piece.
I approach silently, catching the tail end of their conversation. One of them—a snake-looking motherfucker with tattoos all over his face—has his hand wrapped around Luna's delicate arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. The sight makes my vision pulse red at the edges.
"Looks like you little bitches are having a party without me," I drawl, my voice deceptively casual as I step into their space.
They whip around, recognition and wariness flash in their expressions as they take in my cut with its Sergeant at Arms patch, my size, my stance. Luna's eyes meet mine, relief mingling with fear in their depths. Her lip trembles slightly, but there's a fire in those eyes. The little dog in her arms growls and then starts wheezing and choking out hacking coughs.
Snake-face recovers first. "This ain't your business, biker."
"See, that's where you're wrong." I take another step forward, deliberately invading their space, crowding them, using my size to intimidate. It's a tactic I've perfected over years of enforcing the club's will. "The lady clearly doesn't want your company, which makes it very much my business."
"We're just having a friendly conversation," says another one—younger, trying to sound tough but his voice cracks.
"Is that right?" I turn to Luna, softening my expression slightly. "These pendejos bothering you, preciosa?"
Her eyes widen at the endearment, a blush coloring her cheeks. Even in fear, she's stunning—all big dark eyes and full lips, her black hair pulled back in a practical braid that I suddenly want to unravel with my fingers.
“Yes,” she confirms, her voice soft but steady.
That's all I need to hear.
"Four against one seems unfair,” I observe, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. My body relaxes into the familiar pre-fight stance—weight balanced, ready to explode into violence at the slightest provocation. “To you."
Snake-face bristles. "You think you're tough shit because you wear that cut? You're outnumbered."
"Am I?" I smile, the expression devoid of warmth as I reach inside my cut.
Their eyes widen when they see what I'm packing—not the gun they expected, but my hunting knife with its wicked eight-inch blade. I've always preferred knives for intimidation. Guns are too quick, too impersonal. A knife promises prolonged suffering.
"Now," I continue conversationally, "I could gut all four of you in under a minute. Been a while since I practiced my knife work, but it's like riding a bike—you never really forget."
I tap the blade against my thigh, letting sunlight dance along its edge. The two younger gangbangers exchange nervous glances.
"Or," I say, "you could walk away. Pretend this never happened. Live to see another day." My smile widens, turning predatory. "Your choice, boys. And I'm feeling generous, so I'll even give you five seconds to decide."
The youngest one looks ready to bolt, but Snake-face isn't backing down.
"You don't know who you're fucking with," he snarls, reaching for something in his waistband.
I move faster than anyone my size has a right to, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. Before he can draw his piece, my knife is pressed against his throat, just hard enough for him to feel the sting as it breaks the first layer of skin. His eyes bulge, fear replacing bravado as he realizes he's miscalculated.
"No," I whisper, my mouth close to his ear. "You don't know who you're fucking with."
A thin line of blood trickles down his neck as I apply the slightest pressure. Behind me, I hear Luna's sharp intake of breath, but I can't look at her now. Can't see the horror that must be on her face as she witnesses what I am, what I'm capable of.
"This is your only warning," I continue, my voice pitched for his ears alone. "The girl is off-limits. Forever. You see her on the street, you cross to the other side. You hear her name, you forget it immediately. She doesn't exist to you anymore. Understood?"
The fight drains from his eyes, replaced by raw fear. "Understood," he chokes out.
"Good," I say, easing the pressure slightly. "If I hear that you so much as looked her way, I won't be this merciful."
I release him with a shove, watching as he stumbles into his crew, knocking two of the other guys back. The message has been received. They retreat to their car, trying to salvage their pride with mumbled threats that we all know are empty.
Only when the car disappears around the corner do I turn back to Luna. She stands exactly where I left her, clutching her dog to her chest. But her expression isn't what I expected. Instead of horror or disgust, her eyes hold a mixture of adulation, awe, and something else—something that makes my blood heat and my dick stir. Desire.
"You okay, preciosa?" I ask, sheathing my knife and taking a step toward her. I move slowly, carefully, not wanting to spook her after the violence she's just witnessed.
She nods, unable to speak. The little dog in her arms whines softly.
"They won't bother you again," I promise, gently taking her elbow to guide her away from the street. Her skin is warm under my touch, soft in a way that makes me want to run my hands over every inch of her. "Did they hurt you?"
"No." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Just scared me a little.”
Fury rises again, but I push it down. Later. I'll deal with Los Lobos later—permanently.
"What's your name?" I ask. I already know it, but I want to hear her say it. Or maybe I just want to make conversation, prolong our interaction.
"Luna.” Her voice stronger now. "Luna Martinez."
"Javier Santiago," I reply, offering my real name instead of my road name for the first time in years. Something about her makes me want to strip away the layers, show her the man beneath the cut. "They call me Saint."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips, transforming her face. "That seems...ironic."
I laugh, surprised by her boldness. "You have no idea."
She strokes the Chihuahua's head gently.
"Your dog okay?"
"He will be now."
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, her dark eyes searching my face as if trying to solve a puzzle.
"Why did you help me? Yesterday and today?"
I could lie. Could tell her it was nothing, just being a Good Samaritan. But something about those eyes demands the truth.
"Because from the moment I saw you, I couldn't look away," I admit, the words coming easier than I expected. "Because something inside me recognized something inside you."
Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly in surprise. A blush spreads across her high cheekbones, making her even more beautiful. "That's...not possible."
"Isn't it?" I move closer, drawn by an invisible force I can't resist and don't want to. "You felt it too, no?”
The blush deepens, confirming my words. "I don't even know you," she whispers.
"Then get to know me," I challenge gently.
She hesitates, gnawing on her lower lip in a way that makes me want to replace her teeth with mine. Her eyes dart to my bike across the street, then back to my face. "I should go. My grandmother will worry."
“I’ll take you home.” I nod toward my Harley parked across the street. "Faster than walking."
Fear and longing wage war on her face. "I've never been on a motorcycle before."
"There's a first time for everything, preciosa." I hold out my hand to her, an offering, a choice.
After what seems like an eternity, she places her small hand in mine. Her fingers are delicate but calloused from hard work—not soft princess hands, but the hands of a survivor. Her pupils dilate at the contact, and goddamn…
Before I can stop myself—before I can remember all the reasons I should take this slow—I'm pulling her into my arms. One hand cups her face, fingers threading through the wisps of hair that have escaped her braid. The other slides around her waist, drawing her against me until I can feel every curve of her body pressing into mine.
And then I'm capturing her mouth with mine.
She gasps against my lips, her body stiffening for a heartbeat before melting into me. The kiss is everything I imagined and more—soft at first, testing, then deeper as she responds with a hunger that matches my own. She tastes like cinnamon and danger, her mouth sweet and hot under mine.
My pulse thunders in my ears as blood rushes south, my cock hardening against her belly. My hand slides down to the small of her back, pressing her closer, wanting to eliminate any space between us. I've kissed hundreds of women, fucked even more, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this. Like I'm drowning and being saved at the same time.
The little dog sandwiched between us barks, breaking the spell. Luna jerks back, her eyes wide, lips swollen from my kiss. She presses her fingers to her mouth, as if she can't believe what just happened. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, matching my own ragged breathing.
"I shouldn't have done that," I murmur, though I'm not sorry. Not sorry at all.
"No," she agrees, but there's no conviction in her voice.
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb grazing her cheek. Her skin is like silk, warm and alive under my touch. One kiss, and I'm already addicted.
“You're dangerous, Luna Martinez,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. “A dangerous addiction.”
She laughs at that, the sound like music. "Me? Dangerous? You're the one with the knife and the tattoos and the motorcycle gang.”
"Club," I correct automatically. And yes, she’s more dangerous than any weapon I've ever handled.
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie, the game, the angle. She won't find any. This thing happening between us—this instantaneous, all-consuming need to possess and protect—is as real as anything I've ever felt.
"I have to get Paco home," she says finally. "My abuela is waiting."
“Come on." I gesture to her dog, then to the saddle bags on my bike. "He'll be safe in there, and you'll be safe with me."
She hesitates again, weighing her options, weighing her trust. I can almost see the thoughts racing behind those expressive eyes— calculating the risk a man like me poses.
"I won't hurt you, Luna," I promise, my voice solemn. "Not ever."
Something in my tone must convince her, because she nods and lets me help her settle the dog comfortably in my saddle bag, making sure he has enough air and is secure. I can feel her watching me, studying my every move. My reputation in the club is for brutality, for getting the job done no matter how messy. Yet here I am, gently tucking a five-pound Chihuahua into my saddlebag as if he's made of glass.
"Your first time on a bike.” I’m assuming, but it’s more a statement than a question.
She climbs on behind me with endearing awkwardness. Her hands hover uncertainly at my waist as she rattles off her address.
"Hold tight, preciosa," I instruct, starting the engine. The Harley roars to life beneath us, vibrating with power. "Don't be shy."
When her arms circle my waist, her small body pressed against my back, I have to bite back a groan. She feels right there—like she was made to ride with me. Like we were two pieces of a puzzle finally clicking together. I've never let a woman on the back of my bike before. Not once in fifteen years with the Reapers.
In our world, letting a woman ride on the back of your bike... it means something. Every brother who sees us will understand the statement. It's a declaration, a claim. This woman is mine.
"Ready?" I call over the rumble of the engine.
She squeezes my waist in response, her cheek pressed between my shoulder blades. I feel her nod, her breath warm even through my shirt.
As we pull away from the curb, her arms tighten, her thighs pressing against mine. The trust implicit in that embrace is intoxicating. The wind whips past us, carrying her scent—a heady aroma that fills my lungs and imprints itself on my memory.
Aware of her inexperience, I take it easy at first, keeping the speed moderate, avoiding sharp turns. But soon I feel her relaxing against me, her body moving with mine as we lean into curves. She's a natural, anticipating each shift of my weight, following my lead without hesitation.
"You're mine now, preciosa," I murmur, too low for her to hear over the engine's roar.
But somehow, I think she already knows.