9. Luna
Chapter 9
Luna
I collapse onto the sagging couch as exhaustion crashes over me. The thin blanket I keep folded underneath does little to soften the springs that poke through the worn cushions, but tonight I barely notice the discomfort. My body still tingles with the memory of Saint's hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, the pleasure that coursed through me at his touch.
My cheeks flush hot at the memory. I've never experienced anything like that before—never even known such intensity was possible. The way he looked at me...
Paco curls up against my side, his tiny body radiating warmth. He’s doing so much better, thanks to the medication. Still…
No job. Eviction looming. Abuela as sick as ever.
And yet, strangely, I feel almost hopeful. Because of Saint—Javier. Can I actually trust him? A man who blows up buildings and carries weapons as casually as others carry cell phones?
A man who made me feel things I've never felt before...
Sleep takes me before I can untangle my conflicting thoughts, dragging me into dreams filled with dark eyes that see straight through me.
I jolt awake to loud moaning and Paco's frantic barking. For a moment, I'm disoriented, my brain struggling to separate dream from reality. Then I hear it—a heavy thud from Abuela's room.
"Abuela?" I call, my heart pounding as I rush toward her bedroom, stumbling over my own feet in my haste.
The sight that greets me freezes my blood. Abuela lies crumpled on the floor beside the bed, her nightgown twisted around her thin legs, her silver hair spilling from its usual tight bun.
"Abuela!" I drop to my knees beside her, hands hovering uselessly as I assess her condition. Her skin burns against my palm when I touch her forehead, and her breathing comes in short, labored gasps. Her eyes are closed, face ashen except for two bright spots of fever on her cheeks.
"Abuela, please, wake up," I plead, gently patting her face. "Please..."
Her eyelids flutter but don't open. A faint moan escapes her cracked lips, but she shows no other sign of consciousness.
Panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me. I need help—I need to call an ambulance. Neither of us has a phone. Luxury items like cell phones are for people with steady incomes. Mrs. Ramirez next door has a landline, she lets me use when I really need to. I hate to wake her up so late, but this is an emergency.
I press a quick kiss to Abuela's burning forehead. "Hold on. I'll get help."
Racing to the door, I fling it open only to collide with a solid wall of muscle. Hands steady me before I can stumble backwards, and I find myself staring up into Saint’s handsome face.
"Saint?" His name comes out as a bewildered gasp.
He takes in my disheveled appearance, the panic written clearly across my face. "What's wrong?" His body is tense as if preparing for battle.
"It's Abuela," I manage, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the apartment with strength born of desperation. "She fell—she won't wake up?—"
I don't need to say more. Saint follows me to the bedroom, assessing the situation in a single glance. He kneels beside my grandmother, his expression grim as he checks her pulse.
"How did you—what are you doing here?" I ask, watching as he places two fingers against Abuela's neck, counting silently.
"Saw your light go on," he answers simply. "Came up to check."
The implication that he's been watching the apartment all this time should probably alarm me, but all I feel is relief that he's here when I need him.
Abuela stirs, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she seems confused, her gaze unfocused as it drifts around the room. Then her eyes land on Saint, and awareness sharpens her features.
"Tú otra vez," she croaks, her voice barely audible. You again.
Despite the dire situation, a hint of a smile touches Saint's lips. "Sí, senora, me again."
He slips his arms beneath her frail body, lifting her as effortlessly as if she were a child. Abuela makes a weak sound of protest, but lacks the strength for her usual fiery objections.
"Put me down," she demands, though her voice holds no conviction.
"Not happening," Saint replies, placing her gently on the bed. "You've got a fever hot enough to fry eggs, and you just took a header onto the floor. We need to get you to the emergency room.”
Abuela's face contorts in fear and anger. "No! No hospital!" She clutches at Saint's arm with surprising strength given her condition. "Promise me—no hospital."
I hover anxiously at the bedside, torn between knowing she needs medical attention and understanding her terror, especially now when immigration enforcement has become so aggressive.
"Abuela, please," I beg. "You're really sick."
"I know someone," Saint interrupts, his eyes meeting mine with understanding I hadn't expected. "Club doctor. He's discreet."
Relief washes over me, as Saint pulls out his phone, stepping aside to make the call. His voice is low and commanding as he gives our address and a brief description of Abuela's symptoms. I busy myself with wetting a washcloth with cold water to place on her forehead, murmuring soothing words in Spanish as I try to make her more comfortable.
"Luna," Abuela whispers, catching my hand in hers. Her skin feels like paper stretched over bone. "Don't trust him."
"Shh," I soothe, stroking back her sweat-dampened hair. "It's okay. He's not what you think.”
"First they help, then they own you,” she insists, her eyes bright with fever and fear.
I don't know how to explain to her that it feels too late for warnings. That something inside me already belongs to Saint in a way I don't fully understand myself. That when he touches me, all the reasons I should stay away, all the warnings, they simply evaporate.
"Doc's on his way," Saint announces, returning to the bedside. "Ten minutes, tops."
Abuela glares at him with all the ferocity her weakened state can muster. "I don't need your doctor."
"With all due respect, senora, you do,” Saint replies, not unkindly. "Your breathing isn't right, your fever's dangerously high, and you just passed out. That's not something you cure with herbal tea."
His bluntness startles a laugh from me despite the situation, earning me a look of betrayal from Abuela. But there's no time to apologize because Paco scampers into the room, yipping excitedly as he plants his front paws on Saint's leg, tail wagging frantically.
Saint crouches down, patting Paco's head. "Hey there, little warrior. Taking good care of your ladies?"
Paco responds with enthusiastic licks, completely enamored with this dangerous man who has entered our lives.
Abuela narrows her eyes at the dog who remains happily oblivious to her disapproval.
Less than ten minutes later there's a knock at the door. Saint moves to answer it with the fluid grace of a predator, checking through the peephole before opening the door to admit a tall, lean man with salt-and-pepper hair and intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carries a worn leather medical bag that looks like something from another era.
"This is Doc," Saint introduces simply. "Doc, this is Luna and her grandmother..."
"Elena," I supply when he hesitates. "Elena Martinez."
Doc nods a greeting, his manner professional yet kind as he approaches the bed. "May I?" he asks Abuela in surprisingly fluent Spanish.
Some of the tension leaves Abuela's shoulders at being addressed in her native language. She gives a small nod, though suspicion still clouds her eyes.
I watch anxiously as Doc examines her—checking her pulse, listening to her lungs with his stethoscope, taking her temperature. His expression grows increasingly grave with each assessment.
"Pneumonia," he finally pronounces, closing his bag with a decisive snap. "Rather advanced, I'm afraid. You’ll need IV antibiotics, oxygen, and round-the-clock monitoring."
My heart sinks. "But?—"
“No. I refuse to go to a hospital," Abuela interrupts, her voice weak but determined. "I would rather die in my own bed."
Doc exchanges a look with Saint, who runs a hand through his hair. "There's another option," Saint says slowly. "The clubhouse. Doc can set up everything she needs there."
Abuela looks horrified. "Your...motorcycle gang house? Never!"
"It's a club, not a gang," Saint corrects. “And we have proper medical equipment—medical equipment that you need. Let me be very clear here. It’s either the clubhouse or the ER.”
I look between them, hope and trepidation warring in my chest. "Is it...safe at the clubhouse?”
The corner of Saint's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "For you two? Safest place in Wraithport."
Doc turns to Abuela, addressing her directly. "Senora Martinez, I understand your reluctance. But I must be very clear—you have fluid in your lungs. Without proper treatment, this can become life-threatening very quickly."
Abuela groans dramatically, closing her eyes as if in physical pain at the choice facing her. "Dios mío, what did I do to deserve this? First my granddaughter brings home a criminal, now I must live with an entire gang of them."
"Club," Saint corrects again, a hint of amusement in his voice despite the gravity of the situation.
"Abuela, please," I plead, taking her hand in mine. "If Doc says you need this treatment, we have to listen."
She opens her eyes and looks from me to Saint, then finally to Doc, who waits patiently for her decision. With a dramatic sigh that triggers another coughing fit, she finally nods. "Very well. But if I die surrounded by criminals, I will come back to haunt you both."
Relief washes over me so strongly I nearly sway on my feet. Saint's hand materializes at the small of my back, steadying me, his touch sending warmth cascading through my body despite the situation.
"I'll get my truck," Doc says, heading for the door. "We'll need to transport her carefully."
As he leaves, Saint turns to me, his voice softening. "Pack what you’ll both need for a few days."
Panic flares anew as a thought strikes me. "The eviction notice—we have to be out in three days. All our things?—"
"I'll handle it," Saint promises, his voice leaving no room for doubt. "One problem at a time, preciosa. First, we get your grandmother the care she needs. Then we deal with the rest."
The absolute certainty in his voice soothes all the jagged edges I harbor inside. For so long, I've carried a heavy burden. Having someone powerful and capable willing to shoulder some of that weight is both terrifying and incredibly appealing.
"Thank you," I whisper, unable to express the full depth of my gratitude.
Saint's expression softens, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I told you, Luna. You're mine now. That means your problems are my problems. Your family is my family."
Behind us, Abuela makes a disgusted sound. "Dios mío, save me from romantic motorcycle gangs.”
"Club," Saint corrects for the third time, a full smile breaking across his face. "It's a motorcycle club."
Abuela's answering eye roll speaks volumes about her opinion on the distinction.