Page 68 of Savage Saint

She’s a weakness I can’t afford.

Yeah. Just need quiet. ~Saint

Immediately after hitting send, I toss my phone onto the counter, knowing the club will be fine for a few hours. Kaos and Rizos know how to reach me; I have a landline for emergencies, and they can send a prospect to my house if it’s something that can’t wait.

I’m only a few minutes away.

Being a club president doesn’t come with business hours.

For now, though, I need quiet.

I strip off my cut first, draping it over the back of a high-back stool before pulling my shirt over my head. The jeans stay on, but the button and zipper come undone as I walk through the house toward the back.

A slow breeze hits me the second I step outside.

My backyard isn’t anything extravagant; a small pool sits off the patio, water slowly moving beneath the late-afternoon sun. Banana trees grow along one side of the property, mixed in with avocado, guava, and three newly planted mango trees.

Most were here before the house was built, but the mangoes were added a few weeks ago. It’s almost comical, considering the woman currently taking up too much space in my mind smells like them.

I sit on one of the lounge chairs and do nothing.

No phone. No club. No fucking decisions need my immediate approval; I sit with the quiet and my thoughts. Something that’s a problem.

Genesis Romero occupies every single fucking one of them.

From the feel of her pulse beneath my hand to the soft stroke of her breath against my lips. The way her body softened when I touched her, as if some part of her trusted me before the rest of her caught up—admitted I’m dangerous.

She fucking melted against me. Gyrated her hips unconsciously.

“I wanted to kiss her.” Wanted to taste that mouth instead of settling for her cheeks and the skin along her jaw. Especially when her small fingers curled into my cut, trying to pull me closer.

Pocket Doc wouldn’t have stopped me.

And that thought does nothing to calm the way I throb.

Leaning back in my chair, I stare across the yard until the sun eventually drops and a few shadows from a nearby tree dance across the water. I should be bothered by this need to protect—to take her—but the longer I sit with it, the problem becomes my truth.

I don’t care. Won’t walk away.

“It’s her fault.” With that, I push myself to my feet and head inside. Upstairs, I shower and change before pulling my vest on, but leave the bike where it is. Church is only a few minutes’ walk, and tonight, I need the extra time to clear my head before I step through those doors.

Church is beginning to fill when I walk inside.

Kaos is already in his seat, his complexion better than yesterday, with Doc beside him and Rizos across. The rest of my officers take their usual seats around the large table, and there are two things waiting for me at the head.

A thin black folder.

A folded piece of paper with grimy edges.

I stop behind my chair.

Trojan nods when he notices where I’m looking. “The report you asked for, Presidente. The note’s from Henry.”

That gets my attention. How does a blind man leave a note?

We had a productive conversation. Henry’s feeling very cooperative now. Left him the pen and paper you asked…

Thiago.