Page 36 of Savage Saint

Not just now. Not when she took over Doc’s treatment room.

It’s been there since I ripped her from her shift, handcuffing her to Thiago’s SUV. And now that Trino is safe, I’m paying attention.

Her bedroom is at the end of a short hallway; the only door open out of the three. Inside, there’s a large bed and dressers, more pillows in varying sizes, and when I lay her down and she curls into herself, I smile. Actually fucking smile as I drape a blanket over her.

I like her wearing my clothes more than I should.

On the nightstand, I leave her phone, debit card, and identification—not the case. That crap went into the garbage back at the clubhouse; it’s useless and unsafe. I’ll get her another one and have it delivered.

Her screen lights up before I step away.

Beachfront resort near Playa Dorada. Two o'clock. Mani, pedis, and mimosas after lunch. Don’t make me come drag you out, mami! ~Katia

Don’t need to open the message. The preview tells me enough.

I owe her. She saved my brother.

I’m also not done with her yet.

Using the small notepad beside her alarm clock, I leave one message beneath her phone.

See you soon, little Pocket Doc.

9

SAINT

Church starts at seven, yet at six-forty I can hear the heavy footfalls of boots on pavement from inside as my brothers fill the table, one by one. It’s a short walk from the clubhouse, a smaller building to the left of the main structure connected by a covered walkway but separate enough that no one mistakes its purpose.

The clubhouse sits at the center of the compound.

Church to the left.

Our ammo building to the right, farther back with a thick steel door.

What lives inside never comes out without my permission. Most of the ol’ ladies and some brothers are still wary of my pet. It bites unprovoked, and more than one grown man has pissed himself when I’ve brought it out to play.

It protects the guns. I take care of it.

Church is different, though.

From the outside, the building resembles the old Catholic chapels scattered throughout the Dominican countryside. Pale stucco walls worn from the heat and rain, arched wooden doors, and a narrow bell tower rising above the entrance.

Nothing about it screams Royal Bastards. It doesn’t need to.

It’s sacred to us, and only patched members enter.

No women. No prospects. No guests. Not even Maria, whom I trust, steps inside to clean it. If anything needs to be taken care of, a brother steps in. The names on our vest make us responsible.

It belongs to us.

By six fifty, every seat is filled along the long wooden table. Junior closes the doors behind the last brother, and the heavy click shuts out the rest of the compound.

Inside, the space is clean and open. There are no bars, couches, or televisions—just heavy chairs surrounding a dominating table at the center of the room.

Solid Dominican caoba; it’s thick, dark, and polished smooth from years of hands resting against it. Gallo, Maria’s husband, built this when this chapter was established, shaping and finishing every piece himself before carving the Royal Bastards center patch into the wood by hand.

He’s one of our older members, late forties, quiet and loyal—the first man moving when muscle is needed. Especially if anyone disrespects his ol’ lady.