7. Luna
Chapter 7
Luna
The blood rushes to my head as Saint carries me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
"Put me down!" My fists pound uselessly against his broad back.
He doesn't respond, his strong stride never falters as he runs from the spa. Behind us, I hear shouting, car doors slamming, engines starting. I twist my neck, catching glimpses of other women being ushered into vehicles by men in leather vests similar to Saint’s, but we don’t stop.
It’s not until we're tucked into a narrow alley between two brick buildings that Saint finally sets me on my feet. The walls rise high on either side, confining us in shadow. A lone streetlight at the alley's entrance casts just enough light to illuminate his face—hard angles and dark eyes. His hands linger at my waist to steady me but I immediately push him away, my fury battling with my fear.
"What do you think you're doing?" I hiss, straightening my clothes with shaking hands.
"I'm saving your ass," he growls back, his dark eyes flashing in the dim light. "That place was about to go up in flames."
As if on cue, a muffled boom echoes through the night, so powerful I feel the vibration through the soles of my shoes. I look up to see an orange glow illuminating the sky. My hand flies to my mouth, shock momentarily silencing me.
"You...you blew up the day spa,” I whisper, the reality of the situation crashing down on me. "You actually blew it up."
Saint steps closer, his massive frame forcing me to look at him. "The man you worked for? He was trafficking women. Selling them. You get that, right?”
“Yes, I get that,” I admit quietly, wrapping my arms around myself as a chill slithers into my bones. "But you don’t understand. I really needed the job and—" My voice breaks as the full implications hit me. Now I have nothing. No job, no money, no way to keep a roof over our heads. “You don’t understand what you've done.”
Saint's expression softens slightly, the hard lines around his mouth easing. "I understand better than you think."
"No, you don't!" I push against his chest, my palms meeting solid muscle beneath his leather vest. Panic rises in my throat. "My grandmother is sick. We're being evicted. I was scrubbing floors in that hellhole because I had no other options, and now?—"
My tirade is cut short as Saint captures my wrists in his large hands, not painfully, but firmly enough to stop my assault on his chest. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arms.
"I can help you," he says, his voice lower now, intense.
I laugh, the sound brittle and humorless, echoing off the brick walls around us. "Right. Out of the goodness of your heart? Men like you don't help women like me."
His eyes darken, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "What do you know about men like me?"
"I know enough," I fire back, though my body betrays me, responding to his proximity with a rush of heat. "You're dangerous. A criminal."
The rough brick wall presses against my back as I retreat from his intensity, the texture scraping slightly through my shirt. A dripping drainpipe creates a steady rhythm, marking time as we stand locked in this moment.
"Yes," he admits without hesitation. "I am dangerous. But not to you." His thumb traces circles on my inner wrist, his touch gentler than I would have thought possible from hands so large and strong. "Not to you, preciosa."
The tenderness in that last word unravels something inside me. How can this man—this intimidating, violent man—speak to me with such reverence? How can his touch be so tender when I've seen the destruction he's capable of?
"Why do you call me that?" The question escapes before I can stop it, my voice softer than intended.
"Because you are." His grip on my wrists loosens, but he doesn't let go, instead sliding his hands up my arms in a caress that leaves goosebumps in its wake. "Precious."
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird trying to break free. This can't be happening. The way Saint looks at me—like I'm something rare and valuable, something to be cherished.
"I'm also illegal," I remind him, the word bitter on my tongue. My voice drops to barely above a whisper, the admission terrifying even in this secluded space. "Undocumented."
"I don't give a fuck about that,” he interrupts, his expression fierce. "The Shadow Reapers have our own laws. Our own code. You think I care what some bureaucrat says about who belongs where?"
His passion is mesmerizing, his conviction so absolute it shakes my own certainties. He may be dangerous, but I'm drawn to him, pulled by a force I can't explain.
"You blew up a building," I say, one last attempt at reason. "You threatened to kill Popov. You're in a gang?—"
"Club," he corrects.
"Whatever!" My voice rises in frustration. Sirens nearby remind me we're standing not far from a crime scene.
Saint's lips curve into a smile that's equal parts savage and seduction. "I never claimed to be safe, preciosa. But I will keep you safe. There's a difference."
Before I can respond, he closes the distance between us, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that steals the breath from my lungs. Unlike our first kiss outside the veterinary clinic—tentative, exploring—this one demands surrender from the start.
His lips are firm, insistent, the scruff on his jaw against my skin is a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entry, and I open to him with a soft moan that should embarrass me but somehow doesn't.
"Saint," I breathe against his mouth, my hands moving from pushing him away to clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer.
One of his hands tangles in my hair, carefully freeing it from its practical braid until it falls loose around my shoulders. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid body. The heat of him radiates through my clothes, warming my skin, my bones, and places inside me I didn't know could feel such heat.
He backs me fully against the brick wall, his body caging mine. The contrast between the cold, rough brick at my back and his warmth at my front sends shivers down my spine. His kiss is consuming, devouring, claiming.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard, our exhales creating small clouds that mingle in the cool night air. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes smoldering with a hunger that makes my knees wobble.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers hoarsely. "If you don't want this, tell me now, and I'll back off."
His meaning is clear—he's offering me an exit. All I have to do is say the word.
But I don't want to stop. God help me, I want this man with an intensity that surprises me. Not just the physical contact, but this feeling of being wanted, valued, seen.
"I don't want you to stop," I whisper, the admission both terrifying and freeing. "I want...I want..."
Instead of finishing with words, I rise on tiptoes and press my lips to his again, letting my body speak for me. This time the kiss is gentler but no less heated, my surrender explicit in every brush of my lips against his.
His groan is primal, vibrating through his chest and into mine. "Luna," he breathes my name like a prayer against my lips. "Mi preciosa."
His hand slides from my waist to my hip, then lower to my thigh, hitching my leg up around his waist. The position presses his hardness against my center, and even through layers of clothing, the contact sends sparks of pleasure through me.
"Saint," I gasp, my head falling back against the brick wall as he trails kisses down my throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. I'll have marks tomorrow, physical evidence of this moment, and the thought is strangely thrilling.
His hand moves higher, skimming under the hem of my shirt to touch bare skin. His palm is hot, slightly rough with calluses, and I arch into his touch like a cat seeking affection. When his fingers brush the underside of my breast, I whimper, a sound so needy I barely recognize it as my own.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my collarbone. "Let me make you feel good, preciosa."
I nod, unable to form coherent words, overwhelmed by these new sensations. I have no experience with boys. The kiss I shared with Saint outside the vet clinic was my first kiss—ever. Right now I feel like I might combust.
"Yes," I finally manage, the word barely audible over the distant sounds of the city. "Please."
His hand moves to cup my breast over my bra, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it pebbles beneath the fabric. The simple touch sends tingles straight to my core and I arch into his hand, silently begging for more.
"So responsive," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
All I can do is whimper, but he seems to understand my wordless plea, his other hand moving to the hem of my jeans. With deft fingers, he unbuttons them and slides the zipper down. His hand slips beneath the denim to cup me over my panties. I'm already embarrassingly wet, my body responding to him with an eagerness that would mortify me if I weren't so desperate for more of his touch.
"So wet,” he murmurs, his voice roughened with desire. "So perfect for me."
His fingers slide beneath the cotton of my underwear, and I gasp as he makes contact with my most intimate flesh. No one has ever touched me there before—I've barely even touched myself, too exhausted most nights to explore my own body, too busy surviving to consider pleasure.
"Oh!" The sound escapes me, half surprise, half delight, as his finger glides through my folds.
"You like that?" he asks, his eyes watching my expression intently.
"Yes," I admit, my cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and desire. "It feels...good."
His pupils dilate at my words, his breathing becoming more ragged. "Show me," he encourages. “Put your hand on mine, Luna. Show me what you like."
The request is so intimate. The idea makes me feel vulnerable, but I don’t want him to stop and I have a strong desire—no, a need—to do as he says. Hesitantly, I place my hand over his, guiding his fingers to where I need them most, showing him the pressure and rhythm that makes pleasure spiral through me.
"Like this," I whisper, amazed at my own boldness. "Just...oh...there."
He's a quick study, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center and circling it with perfect pressure. When he slides one thick finger inside me, I gasp at the intrusion, my inner muscles clenching around the digit. It's foreign but not unpleasant, especially when he begins to slide it in and out in a rhythm that has me panting.
"More," I beg, not entirely sure what I'm asking for but knowing I need it desperately.
He obliges, adding a second finger, stretching me in a way that burns slightly before giving way to pleasure so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. All the while, his thumb continues its circles on my clit, building pressure, a coiling tension I've never felt before.
"You're so tight," he groans, his voice strained. "So wet for me. So beautiful.”
His words, combined with the skilled movements of his hand, push me toward something I can sense but have never reached. I'm climbing, higher and higher, chasing a peak I can almost reach.
"Saint," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, my nails digging into the leather of his vest. "I can't... I don't..." Fear mingles with pleasure—it's too much, too intense.
"It's okay," he soothes, his lips brushing my temple. "Trust me, preciosa. Let go. I've got you."
That's what does it—those simple words. I've got you. When was the last time I wasn't the one holding everything together?
My tension breaks, ecstasy washing over me in waves so intense my knees would buckle if not for his solid body pinning me to the wall. I cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he continues to works me through my climax, his movements gradually slowing as the aftershocks fade.
"Oh my God," I breathe when I can finally speak again, my body trembling with the aftereffects of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. "That was..."
“Unbelievable.” His expression is almost reverent as he looks down at me. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come apart, Luna."
I should feel exposed, vulnerable—I'm half-undressed in an alley with a man who just blew up a building. Instead, I feel...cherished. As if this powerful man exists not to harm me but to shield me from a cruel world.
Slowly, he helps me straighten my clothes, his movements careful and tender, a stark contrast to the strength I know he possesses. When I'm decent again, reality comes crashing back, harsh and demanding after the momentary escape. I close my eyes, the weight of my responsibilities settling once again on my shoulders.
"My grandmother," I begin, my voice thick with conflicting emotions. "I need to get home to her.”
“I’ll get you home," he promises. “And I'll help you with whatever you need."
Suspicion creeps back in. What does he want from me in return? I’m too tired to voice all the questions buzzing around in my head so I simply ask, “Why?”
His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from his kisses. “Because you're mine now, preciosa. Mine,” he repeats.
The raw honesty in his voice, the conviction in his eyes—it disarms me completely.
"Okay," I whisper, not quite sure what I’m agreeing to.