Page 37 of Saint's Preciosa

My stomach lurches, partly from the concussion, partly from horror. "How long have you been here?"

"Three days, I think." She gestures to the other women. "Natasha and Mei were already here when they brought me in. Zoya came yesterday. You're the newest."

I study the other captives. Natasha must be the redhead curled into herself in the corner. Mei, an Asian woman who can't be more than twenty, sits with perfect stillness, only her blinking confirming she's alive and not a statue. Zoya, with dark hair and hollowed eyes, lies on her side, facing the wall.

"Have you tried to escape?" I whisper.

A small, sad smile crosses Rose's face. "The container is locked from the outside. They only open it to throw in water bottles or to..." her voice falters, "to take someone out."

The implication hangs heavy in the stale air. I don't ask what happens to those who are taken out. I'm not sure I want to know.

"Are you in pain?" Rose asks, redirecting the conversation as she examines the bump on my head.

“Not really,” I lie. My whole body aches, particularly my skull where they struck me, but admitting it feels like surrendering to weakness I can't afford right now.

"Here." Rose offers me a half-empty plastic water bottle. “Not sure when they’ll bring more…orif.”

I take a small sip, forcing myself to go slowly despite my parched throat. The water is warm and plastic-tasting, but it’s the most welcome thing I've ever swallowed.

"Thank you," I say, passing it back to her.

She shakes her head. "Finish it. You need it more than I do."

I want to protest but the kindness in her eyes stops me. I take another small sip before capping the bottle and setting it aside for later. We might need to ration.

"Why are you here?" I ask. "How did they get you?"

Rose's expression darkens, shadows passing behind her eyes like storm clouds. "My stepfather sold me.” Again, she speaks the horrifying words so matter-of-factly. I can’t help but wonder about the parts of her story she hasn’t shared.

"What about you?" Rose asks.

I tell her about Cherry, about the note, about believing the clubhouse was in danger. "I thought I was saving everyone," I finish, the irony bitter on my tongue. "Instead, I walked right into a trap."

“Motorcycle club?” Rose’s eyes are as wide as saucers.

I nod, then wince at the pain the movement causes. "The Shadow Reapers. My..." I hesitate, unsure how to define what Saint is to me. "My man is their Sergeant at Arms."

Something like hope flickers in Rose's eyes. “Are they looking for you?"

"Yes," I say with certainty. If there's one thing I know, it's that Saint won't rest until he finds me.

Chapter15

Saint

The docks loom ahead, a labyrinth of shipping containers, warehouses, and rusting equipment. Each second that passes is a second too long. My Luna is somewhere in this maze, afraid and in pain, and every fiber of my being screams to tear this place apart until I find her.

We move in silent formation—Ghost and Blade flanking me, Hawk and Cipher covering our six, and eight other brothers fanning out in tactical groups. We're heavily armed, body armor beneath our cuts, faces set in grim determination. Cipher's intelligence pointed us to this storage facility on the edge of the industrial waterfront. Surveillance and tracking put Kovalev's operation here—where they process and ship their human cargo.

Where they're holding my woman.

"Three guards at the north entrance," Ghost murmurs into his comm. "Two more patrolling the eastern perimeter."

"I count four armed men by the loading dock," Hawk confirms. "Automatic weapons. Military-grade."

"Cameras on the main gate and warehouse entrances," Cipher adds. "I've looped the feed. They won't see us coming."

The rage inside me is a living thing. Not the hot, blind fury that leads to mistakes. This is cold and calculating. A deadly focus that's made me the club's enforcer, the executioner, the monster they unleash when something needs to be destroyed beyond recognition—or someone.

---