Page 52 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

I chuckle, imagining Gertrude walking Saint with a token collar and leash when, in reality, it was Saint doing the walking. The big brute only obeys verbal commands, and only from people he respects.

“Glad to hear it. I’ll take him off your hands for now. Until next time, ma’am.” I hand the collar back to Gertrude.

As we walk back to Sophie’s, I glance at my watch and ask myself again what the fuck I’m doing. The jet is all prepped. The weather in Moscow won’t hold for much longer.

Yet here I am, leading Saint toward Luna like some twisted test—as if his reaction to her might justify the way my plans crumble every time I see her.

I have a mission. A solid fucking plan. But one look from her sloe eyes sets everything ablaze, leaving me to navigate through the smoke and flames by instinct alone.

Speaking of instinct, I stop and drop to one knee on the sidewalk, bringing myself to eye-level with Saint. “Alright, mate. Sit.”

Saint plants his rump down and his red eyes lock onto mine, alert and ready. The familiar dynamic between us grounds us both.

I run my hand over his broad head and then point to the house. “There’s a woman in there. She’s Cade’s friend. Be nice, Saint. You cannot scare her.” I hesitate before giving the final command. “Lock it down.”

Saint’s ears perk up at ‘woman,’ ‘friend,’ and ‘lock it down’ and he gives a low ‘woof’ of understanding. I nod, more to myself than to him. “Right. Let’s go.”

The living room is empty when we return. I spot Luna in the kitchen and immediately notice the open cupboards and drawers. All of them. She whirls around as I reach the doorway, her eyes wide with guilt.

For such a snoop, she’s got the subtlety of a tornado in a china shop.

“I w-was . . . looking for a pen,” she states, her voice higher than usual. “To write down Uncle Jacques’ email . . .”

“Of course you were,” I drawl, not bothering to hide my amusement. “Anyway, this is—”

Saint glides into the kitchen on silent paws, a shadow at my side. The moment Luna spots him, the blood drains from her face,

“What the fuck!” She screeches, eyes wide as saucers. Before I can reassure her, she spins to bolt—right into the corner of an open cupboard door. Her head connects with a solid thunk that makes me wince.

“Shit!” She yelps, stumbling back and clutching her forehead.

Biting back a laugh, I close the distance in two strides, shut the offending cupboard, and lift her onto the counter.

“Let me see.” I brush her hand aside to examine her forehead, only stepping back once I’m sure there’s no serious damage.

Or at least I try to step back. She’s grabbed handfuls of my T-shirt, white-knuckled and wide-eyed.

“What the hellisthat?“ she gasps, using her hold on my shirt to maneuver me like her shield.

I glance over my shoulder at Saint who’s standing there, head tilted and muscles taut, like he’s not sure whether to go into protection mode or keep his distance. I click my teeth, pointing to the furthest part of the room and he goes over there to sit.

“That’s a dog, princess,” I say, not bothering to hide my grin anymore.

“You don’t say?”

“I promise, he’s not as bad as he looks.”

Her eyes dart between Saint and me, still wild with panic. “Not as bad?” she hisses. “He looks like he eats people for fun!”

“Nah. He’s very protective. His name is St. Michael, but I call him Saint.”

I glance back at Saint then take a calculated step sideways, giving him a clear view of her. She refuses to release my shirt, and something primitive in me enjoys her demand for protection. With deliberate gentleness, I gather her dark silk tresses away from her face then spear my fingers into her nape.

“Hey mate, this is my friend, Luciana.” When I look back at her, I catch something soft and surprised swirling in those dark eyes.

“Wanna go give him an ear scratch?” I whisper, unable to stop my thumb as it strokes along her jawline.

Her eyes widen and she glares at me like I’ve suggested she juggle live grenades.

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